People and scenery flash by outside the window of the train - like life in time-lapse - glimpses of movie scenes. Frozen trees stand sentinel by big businesses and little shops - all coated in snow. The world is glowing and gray at the same time. 

I drift in and out of semi-sleep until I feel the train stop, and bodies start pushing their way toward the door.

Strangers smelling of shaving cream and shampoo jostle up against my shoulders and step on my toes as I make my way out of the subway car - climb the stairs out of the subterranean world, and prepare my eyes for the first wash of sunlight. 

Instead, I’m greeted by the scent of rain on the pavement. The bronze statue in the park just outside the subway station stands dripping with shades of copperish-gold, baptized in the cloudy tears running over its perfect hair and into its eyes - shining with a dusky light.

The forecast hadn’t said rain. I’m going to get soaked through, and I’m so irrationally angry I want to spit - hugging my arms against the damp cold leeching its way into my bones. Familiar misery holds out one hand, and with the other, it reels in more clouds, thicker still, just to be clear that there’s no chance of the sun coming out any time today. I scan the skyline, my eyes burning in my head - soul wavering on the verge of abandoning this whole ordeal - if that’s even an option.

“Excuse me, big sister,” I turn to see a young Asian girl, even smaller than me, about fifteen, with bleached-blonde hair and a big, duckling yellow umbrella tapping my arm, "Are you heading to the mall?”

I let my expression soften, as I shrug, apologetically “No - a little building just behind it, The Precioso Veggera Foundation’s Washington DC office.”

“I know it,” the girl smiles a little bashfully. “I can walk you there if you like. It’s not far.”

Something about the cute, shy way she offers, evaporates my frustration, and I accept. It’s about five minutes from the station to the mall across the street, and from there, just around the corner to the little office where I’m supposed to meet with Mrs. King for my interview with the agent, Ms. Carmichael. The girl talks the whole way, little, meaningless statements like “Watch your step, big sister. These puddles are deeper than they look. Don’t I wish people would pick up their garbage - the sidewalks get so dirty.”

She sounds so much like a little old woman that I can’t help laughing a bit to myself, as she leaves me under the overhang by the front door printed showily with that same blue-green elephant.

“Thanks,” I smile. The small face looks up at me sweetly, with an expression that reminds me of Mrs. Moon.

“It’s no bother. I like walking in the rain,” then she hesitates and says in a shy, kiddish way, “Don’t look so sad, okay?”

I almost laugh - but the look in her eyes is so serious that I just nod.

“Alright, I’ll try.” 

She waves one pink-nailed, manicured hand, before turning and picking her way across the dirty sidewalk to the corner where she turns out of sight in the direction of the mall. I bet she has little girlfriends waiting for her, all ready to be shopping and talking - wasting money.

I let myself wonder who I would have become if I’d had that too, but the thought isn’t as depressing as it used to be.

I check the time on my phone, as the rain spitting on the overhang ricochets off the painted concrete and makes its way to the sidewalk, splashing my feet with little beads of water-hail.

It’s almost 2 p.m. - so I’m fifteen minutes early. Better to be early than late though. I make my way inside, hoping that the office will be warmer than the sidewalk. The rain is already starting to freeze on the pavement.

I have to stop and catch my breath as I get my first glimpse of the lobby. 

It’s not the sudden wave of air-conditioning that surprised me - though that would be enough to steal anyone’s breath, but the artwork and newspaper pages covering every inch of the back wall from floor to ceiling.

I guess I expected the office building to look a little bit more like a regular old boring office, even if it was for an art foundation. I expected there to be dull seats and outdated magazines, but instead, there are statues by the door on either side and clay elephants on the table, littered with flyers for galleries and museums. The wall on my right-hand side is painted a deep, seaweed green - making the room seem darker than it was outside despite the sunless afternoon sky. Splashes of golden and red, blue iris and magenta stand out from the paintings on the wall, and I’m drawn to them like a magnet. There’s too much to look at for my eyes to know where to look first - and they dance around, dizzy with color and motion.

On one newspaper page, I see a painting of a faceless cocoa-brown woman in a floppy pink Sunday bonnet holding an armful of flowers that worm their thick stems between threads and ribbons in her mint green dress - spill to the left and the right as if they're alive and jumping out of her embrace. The headline runs “Veggera Foundation ‘Rainbow Ocean,’ Indira Jefferson shakes the literary world with the appearance of her new piece “Last Springtime” on the cover of Gethsemane Journal.” A few paintings to the right, I see the same piece displayed, and I wonder whether it was posted there before or after the article.

I don’t know how long I’ve been standing there entranced when a door seems to open out of the paintings and a tall woman in a velveteen, purple pantsuit, steps out.

For a minute I doubt what I’m seeing, and wonder if she isn’t one of the paintings come to life, until she sneezes into a white handkerchief, eyes tearing up behind her glasses.

“Oh, my apologies. You are Ms. Alicia Palmero?”

I just nod. She offers her hand and I shake it - still feeling like a sleepwalker.

“I’m Juana King, who you talked with on the phone.”

I nod again, and she smiles grayily like she sees through my evident confusion.

“The hidden door catches everyone off guard the first time, it was one of Mr. Veggera’s crazy fancies. He has us set up all the offices like this. Would you come in?”

She motions to the door, which on the outside is all coated with prints of still lifes and oceans - a few gardens. The door handle sticks out through the head of a purple daisy. I shudder internally to think who had to take a scissor to the picture, even if it was only a copy. The inside of the door is painted a crisp shade of cream.

The office is a lot warmer than the room before it, and a lot more to my expectations, in terms of decoration, but that’s dull after the lobby. There’s a big desk in the center of the room with a rather outdated computer and a pile of books and folders organized neatly on its mahogany surface. Four computer chairs stand in various positions of convenience, two in front and one behind the desk, another in the corner, for a recluse.

Am I going to be meeting with three people today? 

I think it but don’t ask, as I continue scanning the room. 

Ms. Carmichael is nowhere to be seen, but for all I know, there are other doors hidden somewhere in the cream-colored walls waiting to open randomly like a jack in the box.

Mrs. King sits down behind the big desk and bids me to take a chair with a casual wave of her hand and a “sit wherever you like.”

“Don’t be nervous,” she adds as I sit down in the swivelly chair on the left in front of the desk, and put my toes to the floor to keep it from spinning.

I’m too confused to feel nervous, for once, so I just nod and try to stop looking for signs of another door.

She flips through a folder stuffed to the brim with half-empty printed pages on white paper, talking all the while.

“All your details were confirmed from the application. Age 28. A graduate of Angelou University,” I nod as she keeps flipping. A few of the pages I notice, have tiny versions of my works printed on them, with handwritten notes scribbled anywhere they’ll fit. I’m almost unbearably curious, but I can’t make them out from the angle I’m sitting at.

“So, that’s right,” Mrs. King says clapping the folder shut with a vehemence that immediately recalls me to attention. “The team here at the foundation has been doing a lot of research on your work history since before and after the award, and we were rather surprised to find that your art hasn’t appeared in any galleries or journals before now.”

I stare blankly, “Is that bad?”

She smiles, taking off her glasses and resting them on top of the folders.

“No, it’s not bad. It’s just that you're the first winner we’ve ever had who hasn’t had significant exposure beforehand. It’s actually pretty spectacular. Honestly when it comes to signing new artists, the newer the better. We have more potential to work with the less that’s set in stone. So what we’re looking to do in this interview, and in further interviews if you so choose, is to find you an agent out of one of our affiliates who best fits the direction you’re looking to go in, expansion-wise. There’s no hurry to settle on one too quickly, we have several, and as I said, more than one was looking to work with you. It’s up to you to help us settle that without any in-fighting and gnashing of teeth. I’ll just bring in Shannon to talk with you today and you two can chat a bit to see if you click before we go over any more details. Would that work for you?”

I nod again, and she pulls out her cell phone, texting someone quickly, before holding up a finger to me and mouthing with a confiding smile, “Just a second.”

A small panel the size of a door slides open on one wall and Mrs. King rises quickly from her chair to greet the newcomer, hitting the armrest against the desk as she does.

“Ms. Palmero, this is Shannon Carmichael. Shannon, please meet Ms. Alicia Palmero.”

I try to hide my surprise but fail miserably, my eyes almost popping out of my head.

I had expected “Shannon Carmichael” to be a woman, an older woman at that, but standing in front of me is a tallish, Arab looking man about my age, with thick, wavy black hair shaved on the sides, and the brightest, greenest eyes I’ve ever seen.

“Pleased to meet you,” he smiles, shaking my hand.

“S-same,” I stammer.