Jenny flashed a big, toothy smile and said, "Sure, why not?"
The manager, a beefy man by the name of Gus, looked down at her application, "What style of massage do you specialize in?"
Uh-oh. There were different styles of massage? Jenny furrowed her brows and asked, "Style?"
"Mm," Gus nodded, still appraising her application, "what school did go to? How much experience do you have?"
A hot wave of embarrassment flashed over her cheeks and neck. She should have left right then, she knew, but somehow she stuck around, cooking up some sort of lie to get her in the door. There was no reason for her to want a job so badly for which she possessed only a profound ignorance.
"I practice the Wushu style."
Gus scowled and finally looked up at her, "Wushu?"
Jenny's brother had made her watch Jet Li's Fearless on DVD the previous night, and the lie just tumbled from her mouth. To her horror, the tumbling continued, "It's a new Nordic massage technique -- like Swedish, but gentler. I've been perfecting this new style for the last 18 months."
Gus scratched his chin, "I don't know."
"Look, to prove to you, let me massage you. I promise it'll be the best massage ever."
Gus grunted, "Hardly. I don't allow people to touch me."
Interesting, Jenny grimaced. Not helpful, but interesting.
"Well, pick out one of your staff, and I'll Wushu the crap out of 'em!"
Gus rubbed his chin and thought about the offer.
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