Her feet move in front of her unwillingly. Like a robot, stiff from head to toe, she steps into the conference room and the voices immediately hush. The suits look at her expectantly, as if she holds the cure for cancer. She felt like screaming at them to all relax. But she had a job to do. The presentation would determine her path; everything she had worked for has come up to this piont. Someone in the back coughted, allowing her a second to breathe. The door to the conference room suddenly closed. When did that happen? Someone else cleared their throa. That must be her cue. Smoothing down her gray pencil suit, she cleared her own throat and began.
All Writing.Com images are copyrighted and may not be copied / modified in any way. All other brand names & trademarks are owned by their respective companies.
Generated in 0.06 seconds at 3:49pm on Dec 26, 2024 via server WEBX1.