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interview him before giving him a pass. At the start of the day, he had printed 15 copies of his resume. 30 places later, he still had 15 copies. It had been too long since he started and he had missed lunch in favor of trying harder.
    When he looked at a store’s clock next, it was 6 p.m. He had spent an entire day being rejected. He was surprised he didn’t wanna kill himself. He wasn’t going to quit just yet, however. Surely, he couldn’t go on all day, but until the sun completely set, he would keep on trying.  
    His search had brought him all the way to TriBeCa, and he decided to head back Uptown and try his luck in all the places he’d missed. There were, what? A million stores in Manhattan? One must take him. If not in Manhattan, then Brooklyn, or Queens, or somewhere. He couldn’t rot away before he had the chance to flourish. They couldn’t do that to him. The world owed him that, at least, for having cursed him with societal hate and intolerance. It owed him a minuscule sliver of empathy. And he was determined to find that sliver.
    In almost no time he was back in the northern part of the Village and walking around blocks he was certain he hadn’t passed before. He noticed a bistro with a long, black, tall tables and white stools outside, mason jars filled with rose pedals placed in equal lengths across its surface. On closer inspection, he noticed that the rose petals were glued on the glass surface and tealight candles lit up inside the jar. An oval-shaped sign on the wall right next to the glass entrance told him he was about to enter the establishment called Les Fourches.
    The entire place was decorated in a similar minimalistic manner to the outside. Black and white furniture with mason jars candle holders and salt and pepper shakers placed next to each other made the whole place look cold and distant; if it weren’t for the candlelight mixed with the yellow hue of the hanging light bulbs and the paintings lining every wall, which made him feel welcome.
    It was a small place. He counted approximately fifteen tables. The bar on the left side was a dazzling view. Black and white granite assembled the actual bar surface. The shelves on the wall housed all sorts of liquor in massive mason jars with a little tap to pour the drink. The beer taps were barely visible behind the bar. The whole area was wired with fairy lights, making it look like a place that had sprung out of a drunk man’s day dream. It was mere perfection. He hardly stood a chance.
    Three waiters were maneuvering around the tall tables, providing the patrons anything they required. A man, a decade or two older than Pierce, stood by the side of the door behind the host stand, talking on the phone while scribbling something on a paper in front of him. He glanced at Pierce and signaled a moment with his finger while he finished up the call. Pierce took the opportunity to make more observations about the facility.  
    The waiters, all males, were tall and muscular, handsome and lean, but also quick on their feet and intelligent-looking. The bartender was a bit on the shorter side but buffer than anyone else, his muscles flexing as he shook the cocktail shaker. Everyone was clean-shaven and trimmed. Their clothes ironed and tight around their body. They all wore gray, knee-length aprons and carried a smartphone in their hands when they weren’t dealing with trays or food plates.
    Everyone was smiley and gentle with their motions. The patrons, a majority of men and a few families, were all thin, white, as polished, or perhaps even more if that was even possible, than the personnel. They all were busy talking to each other or gawking at their expensive gadgets while sipping or nibbling on something. He had walked into a lot of places, but Pierce felt this might be the one that made him feel the most awkward. The most out of place. Sure he had the muscles to match the waiters’, even if they were starting to lose their taut nature as was natural