Leia has turned her embarrassing reputation as a Third Wheeler into a money-grabbing phenomenon: Third Person's The Charm; an underground business where high school students pay Leia to third wheel.
Her new entrepreneurship skills soon catch the at...
* Everyone is a third wheel at some point in their lives. This is dedicated to the all uncomfortable, invisible, pity, unwanted third wheels who have the courage to pull through the PDA and awkwardness.
This one's for you. *
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"Miss Leia, your resume is quite impressive."
The manager sipped her coffee, tired eyes worn out from the twenty other plain interviewees who visited this morning.
"You were once a cashier at Pet Value, a regular volunteer at the local soup kitchen, and"--she choked on drink--"It says you're a full-time third wheeler?"
"Yes, ma'am. My current profession is third wheeling," I replied.
She flipped to the next page. "Under your hobbies you put third wheeling." Her eyes dropped to the bottom of the resume. "And in skills." She tore off her round spectacles and peered down at me. "You put third wheeling as your job, hobby and skill on your professional resume?"
I answered this question at least twenty times over the past two weeks so a solid response shouldn't have been a problem.
My fingers kept fumbling with my briefcase latch under the desk. "Correct. It's a stable job but the business is—"
"Business?" The resume I spent hours on my grandparent's typewriter slipped between her hands. "You own a...third wheeling business?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Really?" Terribly intrigued, the manager leaned over the desk and rested her chin on her open palms. "Do explain."
I crossed one shaky leg over another. "My self-run company provides a few different services for the customer—"
"Like as in sexual favours?" she cut in.
"No!" I burst out. Startled, she leaned back, and I quickly cleared my throat. "I mean, no. Not those kind of services."
"Then what kind?"
I grinded my teeth together, clutching the briefcase handle. "Services such as—"
The timer went off and my knees sprung up and hit the desk.
The little clock bounced around before she took a slap shot with her hand, smacking the clock off her papers. A thunk echoed between us as the it landed in the trash can. I hugged my briefcase tighter.
"Sorry, you were saying?" She flashed a sweet smile.
"It's alright," I began, praying she couldn't see my legs trembling under my skirt. "I should be off anyway. I don't want to cut into the time for your next interview." I stood up and pushed my chair in. "I know there's a lot of candidates still waiting outside—"
