I sit down to eat. Everyone is already seated, I feel their eyes drifting over me and darting away. Some of them I know, but no greeting do they offer. I start to get the sense that this will not be a big meal, but one of those food parades with much decoration and little substance. The long table has around fifteen people gathered about it, looking casual and uncomfortable. Being inside a working office, lots of people bustle in and out around us, their shadows coming through the glass walls. I have just come from the room where the horses are kept. I lingered there for a while, since I’d rather be with them anyway, but I took this invitation, made this appointment, and I intend to get something worthwhile out of the deal, not to mention my desperation pulling alarm bells at the back of my mind to hurry me along. After the trip in, I imagine the horse smell soaked into my clothes and is now overpowering the carefully crafted culinary perfumes. I attribute this as one on the list of reasons why no one is particularly happy with me. A member of staff strolls over to my side, places a cardstock menu with curling letters in front of me and explains the third item from the top has just been served. Swiftly she leaves, and right behind her another one comes, setting a plate of noodles and sausage at my place, cream sauce dripping, steam rising. I am very hungry. The parade marches on. People keep chatting while others are poking forks into their mouths. I focus on spinning the appropriate amount of noodles into the fork prongs, slipping them into my mouth with as little obvious strain as possible. It’s very good, but no one else is sharing with me in these delights. On their plates are simple little bites that look anything but simple. As I scrape up the last saucy, flavorful drops, I notice a presence suddenly beside me. She’s tall and slender, short blonde hair spiked out in all directions, then swooped across her forehead. A smile stretches over her precise features. Her eyes are cold. “So glad you could join us,” she says. I slurp the final noodle past my lips. Her smile vanishes. “Further, I am so glad you thoroughly enjoyed your dish. Are you quite finished? We have several more rounds to serve, but I’m afraid they won’t be as appetizing as this one you so delicately devoured.” A flutter of her eyelids tells me the composure she wishes to exude is overtaken by her huge dislike for me in this moment. “Yeah, that was lovely, thank you,” I bow my head swiftly, slink out of my seat. My friends who are seated among the guests wince at me as I pointedly make eye contact. “You guys have fun, catch up later? Yeah, so,” I clap my hands together, wipe them on my clothes, and remove myself from their party, the stinking eyesore sulking. It is embarrassing to realize I ate rather obnoxiously, as I really didn’t mean to. My plan was to blend in seamlessly, but at least I got fed anyway. I walk on through the narrow corridors, looking for some cues as to what goes on here and how I should act. I feel like I’ve just been dropped into a totally different world, and having arrived on horseback, the contrast is striking. The building is white or grey in any space that’s not glass. It’s sterile, soundless. The people who I first imagined were working, I understand now as I look closer that instead of working, they are passing time. They shuffle about refilling coffee, speaking quietly, idling behind wide screens. They look up disgruntled when they notice my worn leather, dust and mud-clad gear is leaving a trail behind me. I venture deeper into the maze of the building and arrive at no further explanations. Then ahead of me, I spot the first window to the outside, the first glimpse of sunlight. Stepping closer to take in the view, I think, This can’t be real as the scene before me unfolds. People in tricolored suits, the kind one would use when jumping out of a plane, leap and bound across a green lawn with spirit, as if performing in a circus. Some of them flip, cartwheel and spin. There is no audience, the dancing and gaiety appears to be for their own amusement. Beside them, they bounce giant beach balls, sometimes soaring over their heads, the shadow swallowing them up, then landing and rolling over their friends. From behind my glass, it is silent, but I imagine a roaring cacophany of splitting laughter as I watch a number of heads rearing back then bending forth over slapped knees, pointing out when one gets trampled. It is a huge commotion and after a time, I realize it is leading somewhere. Each member of the crowd collects into a single-file line at the edge of the lawn, where a large pool begins. I cannot see the end of it, just blue in the distance. They begin to look like ants down there, the organized line moving in its characteristic chaos of rhythm. And the people are marching, or dancing or spinning, one by one off a ledge and into the pool. It seems to catch them by surprise, they do not slow their stride once they leave land to enter water. My breath sticks in my throat for some moments as I watch one after another disappear and disappear. None come up for air. I take a solemn step back from the window. I inspect its frame, quickly discovering I can slip my hand behind it and feel the cold concrete wall. It’s no window at all. I take another step back and now I can see the small rectangular slice of text in its bottom right corner. We get what we want, then it’s over is offered as the title, attributed to an artist who composed this vision using pixels within a digital frame. I head back the way I came, back through the long hallways where office space splits off, empty now in the evening hours. I reach the table where I was relunctanly, but thankfully, served. This room has emptied out as well, except for three figures who remain at the table speaking easily amongst themselves. I recognize the figures to be my friends along with the harsh blonde woman from before. One of them calls out, “Hey, come have a seat!” The lights are low, the table cleared. A sense that a serious discussion has just been interupted is palpable. I take the back of a chair in my hands to scoot it toward me, but the intensity of the blonde woman’s stare stops me. She stands and says, “I’m so sorry we weren’t properly introduced. Your friends have filled me in. Please do have a seat, I’m happy we could have another chance to talk.” Her hand hovers out to meet mine. Our handshake exchanged, we both find our seats. My friends begin a discussion of minor details, calling back to how long we’ve known each other, what our friendship has consisted of. I nod along, smiling at our shared jokes or affirming people, places, and things as they come up. The serious woman interjects questions, probes at explanations. It moves along like an interview at points. All their declarations and stories start to cast a shining light on me. I come out looking almost spiffy, adding a balm to what was wounded by first impressions. Finally we arrive at what must be the point of my time here. The woman I have just met takes charge of the conversation, saying, “So I might have an offer for you, if you’re looking for work.” I compose my face into a look that reflects interest, hopefully, since I am looking for work. Still, I get this scratching sense that her kind of work won’t fill me with satisfaction. “I need someone to go into our storage crates with a critical eye, retrieve things of interest, decide what should be there, remove what should not. It would take just a few days.” There it is on the table, the morsel I am meant to take up, the one piece that is offered without side glances. I choose it, and I do not match it to my worth, these are irrelevant to each other. At least I try, but I have to recognize immediately the scales are imbalanced. With an easy smile, I look back at her and say, “I’m great at organization.”