Maple King is a juggernaut in the engineering industry. My father was correct to assume this consultancy focuses on engineering projects. Civil engineering. Not mechanical, like my degrees.
It shouldn’t bother me how easily my parents forget what I’ve spent a decade studying and testing. Pardon my saltiness at the tiny fact that academia was my life. I never pledged a sorority, played soccer, or danced like Marcela, unless you count dancing alone in my dorm.
I did one thing, and it’s not memorable enough to remember.
M is for Miriam.
Mechanical engineering starts with M.
Miriam is a mechanical engineer.
Simple, if you ask me.
In fairness, it’s my fault I stuffed these hips and this waist into the suit. It was one size too small before I left the house, and I still forced myself to perform the magic trick of breathing without collapsing a lung or popping a button. It’s not vulgar, though the ruffles exploding from my chest scream,Check out these titties if you can find them!
The shoes? Another fail. My heels caught every crack and patch of ice on the sidewalk. The way I slipped and slid across the floor of this fancy lobby, I’m walking evidence that some people should enjoy a life of flats. I was too busy fighting for my life to let humiliation to sink in, and I couldn’t quite care about my yelps bouncing off the panes of glass.
But this potential job could fund a home lab in my second bedroom, which is the only reason I came downtown. I can’t afford CAD software for design and simulations yet, but I wanta dedicated space for skill development and personal projects. I also want an annual subscription for a program I used the student version of in grad school. The license alone is thirty grand I don’t have, unless I show off my toes on a fetish website.
Software and prototyping materials cost money. I need a high-paying job to make money. Hence the ruffles, sausage suit, and heels.
The receptionist, who’s in stilettos and not playing tag with her shadow, helped escort me to a chair. To her credit, she wasn’t too disturbed by someone dressed like Prince and the Revolution doing a James Brown impression with half the coordination.
“Someone will be with you shortly.” The brunette offers a smile mixed with a frown before she struts back to her desk. On its front is “Maple King” in gold bold letters, a reminder that my future, if I work here, means controlled pantyhose and practiced runway walks.
A knot forms in my throat.
I can wear high heels for software, I tell myself. It might mean relying on the company workers’ comp, but I’ll become aTop Modelcontestant if it means full access to technology.
Don’t think about a future of blistered feet.
I cringe at the beads of sweat gathering across my forehead, streaking the liquid foundation I misapplied because I don’t wear makeup. Contouring and blending aren’t a skillset. At best, I’ll mimic a five-year-old’s fingerpainting project instead of the Bob Ross masterpiece that women with more patience have mastered.
Heat, conduction, and gravity are much more intriguing to me than face glue. I prioritized safety over fashion in labs, but something tells me Maple King will require shopping trips to stores that don’t sell eggs or tires.
Is it too late to leave?
The slippery trek through the Antarctic I battled to get here is a cautionary tale to stay put. Jarvis, my trusty hybrid sedan, is parked down the opposite end of the street, which means more figure skating for me. If I take off the patent leather choking my feet now, I’ll at least have a fighting chance of making it to the elevator.
“Miriam.”
I push down the compulsion to jump into one of the trees outside and face the gravelly baritone. The owner of said voice’s lips ribbon from a trimmed beard under deep cheekbones. He’s in a cream dress shirt that’s missing a tie and tucked into olive slacks over a long, lean figure.
I adjust my glasses and recoil. If he’s an engineer, I want a list of who else is on staff…for research purposes.
He’s still waiting.
“Coming.” My scoot off the leather chair comes with the bonus of quick grunts to prevent aBasic Instinctmoment.
My steps are a calculation of weight distribution from the balls of my feet to my heels, but I reach him without injury.
“Hi,” I say through a heavy breath, careful not to swallow the jasmine and spice cologne that’s emanating from the man in front of me. My heels add four inches to my five-four height, but I’m still half a foot from meeting his eyeline.
His eyes crinkle under a fan of dark lashes. He extends a hand. “I’m Kieran, nice to meet you. Can I get you anything? Coffee. Water.”
“Have any ventilators lying around?”
His brows kiss against his caramel hue. “Excuse me?”
