"Hi. I'm Claire. Nice to meet you. How do you do? I'm Claire. It's nice to meet you, too."
Claire Taylor worked her way around the circle of people in the room, shaking everyone's hand and smiling at each person she met. She couldn't believe she was there. She didn't want to be there and in the predicament she had landed herself into. She knew she had to do what she had to do.
"Suck it up and get it done. Just do it," she told herself.
That was the morning she finally made up her mind to actually drive down to the unemployment office. Now that she was there, she stood in the middle of a group of strangers shaking one hand after another, introducing herself to folks just like herself. These were people who had lost their job, just like her, for no other reason but this stinking economy that our government has allowed to happen.
Only, most of the people in the room were in their thirties and forties; Claire was in her late fifties. She was the only one who had grey hair and up until three months ago, she didn't have that, either. Three months ago, she could afford to have her hair dyed and her nails manicured. But, she couldn't afford that now.
Three months ago she had a job at the River Flower Shoppe; a place she had worked in every morning for the past thirty years. It was the only job she had ever had. It was the only thing she knew how to do, but because of the economy and the fact that people don't have any discretionary income any longer, the store manager was forced to give her a layoff slip. He had tried to keep her on the payroll for as long as he could. He knew after the flurry of summer weddings had completed and that last bride marched through their door, this would be the end of his busy season until Valentine's Day next year. It was with deep regret he had to hand Claire her pink slip.
She spent most of her days surfing the internet looking for a dream job, but she knew she would never find one in spite of her dedication. When summer turned into fall and there was still no job in sight, she decided to get a little more assertive in her job hunting. She strapped on her stilettos, so-to-speak, and marched her petite little ass down to the unemployment office to join in on some of the workshops they offered to the terminally unemployed citizens.
Today's workshop was on interviewing skills, something that she had no use for in the past thirty years. This little break-out session was "How to Properly Shake Hands". So, there she was going around the room, firmly taking hold of every poor slob's hand in the room, giving it two or three (but not more) pumps, smiling and saying good morning, and/or her name, all according to the directions of the instructor. Then, she would repeat the process to the next unemployed worker. Gawd, how she hated doing this crap!
She had learned how to properly shake someone's hand forty years ago in high school, but she soon found out they didn't teach that class any longer. She knew that instantly by the way people in the group shook her hand with a limp wrist and somebody else grabbed ahold of her fingertips with a nod of their head and no salutation uttered from their lips. These were young adults in the group and they didn't know how to perform a common greeting like a shake of a hand. What a world we live in! It was pretty obvious the only thing the high schools were teaching these days was a computer language because she saw a couple of people wink at her and then tip their head sideways.
That's when she came to Jack who was standing next in line. Jack was an older gentleman who appeared to be in his early sixties, neat in appearance and nicely dressed. Claire was almost immediately attracted to him. She didn't know if it was their similar ages, or the simply fact that he had a full head of hair, which is something you don't see very often in someone his age. She knew there was a spark the very second he reached for her hand to introduce himself.
"Good morning, Madame. I'm Jack Sprat and it's so nice to meet you on this beautiful morning." He held her hand longer than the three traditional pumps. Claire thought for a moment that he was going to bow from the waist and raise her hand to his lips and kiss it, but instead he turned her wrist gently to admire her ring.
"My! That sure is a nice little bauble you have there. Looks like a blue topaz, maybe six or seven karats, right?"
"Thank you. It was a gift from my husband," she tried to retrieve her hand from his clutches.
"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't see a ring on your other hand. I didn't realize you were married. Forgive me for being so forward with the hand shaking exercise." Jack took a step backward to give her that invisible personal space that everyone knows is there, but no one ever speaks about.
"That's perfectly alright. I'm a widow," she found herself almost flirting with this debonair gentleman.
"Did you say your name was Jack Sprat?" Claire let out an audible chuckle and a smile appeared across her lips.
