Again, But Better

Part 2
2017

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27. What Page Are You On?
“If you were a shape, what shape would you be?” The chair creaks as the man leans back and folds
his hands over his knee.
If I were a shape? 
If I were a shape.
A diamond? Would they want to hear diamond? Am I a
diamond? I’m under enough pressure. What about parallelogram? I like how the word
parallelogram
rolls off the tongue.
What. Shape. Am I? What shape am I?
His fingers drum on the table. Shit.
“Uh, I would be a circle, or actually a sphere because I’m three-dimensional, you know, and,
because I can always roll with the punches.”
He blinks. “Hmmm.”
I swallow.
“If you were a flower, what flower would you be?” he drawls.
Flowers? I don’t really know flowers. Rose because 
Red
is my favorite Taylor Swift album?
Sunflower because I’m upbeat? What are those things at Christmas? Poinsettias! Also red. And
poisonous. Is there something orange? Orange feels unique.
The fingers drum again. 
Make a decision.
“Okay, I’d say, I’d be a rose—”
His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. Okay, 
rose is bad.
I choke. “I mean, no, that’s too romantic. I’d actually be a sunflower because they’re really
bright and positive, and well, tall … and I’m just, like, average height. I retract that?”
He sighs loudly.
“I’m an orange tree!” I blurt. “I like to make … things that people can enjoy, and oranges are
unique, but not too unique because … they’re universally good for your health.” I nod absently to
myself.
“So, not a flower,” he states gravely.
My shoulders droop. How does any of this trace back to my medical experience?
His frown deepens. “What was my last published work?”
His? Oh god, I found out I’d be interviewing with him half an hour ago. I’m bombing this. I
can’t believe I’m bombing this. I did so much research on their program.
“I, I … I’m sorry, um … I don’t know.”
Silence stretches.
“Okay, thank you for coming in.” I’m dismissed.
“I, um … would you like to hear about any of my medical experience? I—”
“I’ve read about it in your file, Ms. Primaveri.”
There’s a moment of uncomfortable gaping on my end.
“Um, uh, okay, well, I just want you to know, I’m graduating top of my med class, and I think
the world of the university and I really appreciate, um, your consideration for the residency position

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here at NYU.”
He says nothing. I pick up my purse and stumble from the office.
Outside, students bustle around me, entering and exiting the building. I drop down, taking a seat
on the stone steps. Well, that went poorly.
I check my cell. Still no return call from Babe. I have a few hours before my other interview—
that one will be better
. Now I know to expect random, obscure personality questions.
My gaze drifts over to my left hand. I’m still having a hard time processing what happened
yesterday. Straight up out of the blue, Boyfriend asked me to marry him. The second the proposal
left his mouth a different guy barged back into my thoughts. Both the proposal and the reemergence
of Other Guy have been very inconvenient surprises to deal with while doing last-minute residency
interview prep.
I couldn’t sleep on the plane ride over because my brain was like: Um, you know what would be
more fun than sleeping? Staying up forever and rehashing every waking memory that Other Guy’s
ever been a part of. Now I’m tangled up in a mile-long string of what-ifs.
It just so happens that Other Guy works here in the city at a company that makes golf equipment
or something. I’ve seen the name of the place on Facebook. I’ve also looked up where it’s located
on Google Maps because apparently I’m slowly making the transition from Facebook stalker to
actual real-life physical one.
I can’t go see him.
What I’m going to do now … is get some work done in a coffee shop for a few hours, and then
head over to Columbia for my other interview, and then I’m going back to San Diego, and over to
see Boyfriend. There will be no pit stops. I will not complete the transition.