A single 'ding' ripped through the worrisome journalist like a tornado as it shattered her self-esteem into pieces and tossed around thoughts of last-minute anxiety in her mind like tumbleweed.
With every menacing second, Hazel stood still staring at her smudged reflection before the double doors opened, immersing the writer into the wind.
Erratically clenching her secreting palms once the visual of her apprehensive reflection vanished and revealed the narrow hallway with a couple of doors aligned on the brick walls, Hazel nervously stepped off the lift. Instantly feeling the arctic chill develop goosebumps along her skin while she slowly moved down the hall glancing at each engraved numeral, trying to recall the number of a specific door.
Slowing her steps, Hazel reached up and ran her fingers over the numerals before reciting the digits again for clarity. Chewing on her bottom lip, Hazel reflected on her hard journey working towards senior editor for Vibe Magazine.
With her next couple of moments making or breaking her two-year goal Hazel fluttered her eyes closed to inhale and exhale the notions of failure before opening her hazel orbs to the word, full blown with a newfound burning desire.
Using the bronzed door-knocker to make her presence known Hazel waited a couple of minutes for the door to open, but received nothing making her knock rapidly against the wood once more.
Just as her clenched palm was about to move forward and sound off another thump the door abruptly flew opened making her hand to slip off the knob. Pouring loud contemporary r&b music in the hallway with it's opening, the door unveiled a frantic, half dressed neo-soul singer.
"—shit! I'm sorry 'bout the wait it's just the music, the clothes an— please, come on in." Hazel heard Maxwell apologize profusely while ushering her inside of his studio apartment.
Stepping onto the dark walnut hardwood Hazel walked into his spacious foyer while the Brooklyn native bolted his locks and quickly crept over to his stereo-system to lower the soulful sound of Raphael Saadiq's Ask Of You before coming back to stand infront of the timid journalist.
"Again, I'm sorry 'bout the mess I was just," His scratchy, baritone voice trailed, "working." Maxwell nervously rubbed his palms against his trousers.
