I call this look Claire, the over-eager intern who has not yet learned she should not wear sandals to the office.

Claire arrived in Midtown bright-eyed from her first year at Brown, where she isn’t quite avant-grade enough to fit in. She gets paid minimum wage, which doesn’t even begin to cover rent on the shoebox-sized room she is renting in a walk up in a neighborhood her roommates call “East Williamsburg.” Fortunately her parents are helping to support her in her vague dream of somehow doing something memorable. Somewhere. She isn’t quite sure what she’ll do. This soul-sucking day job offers her little hope of finding what she’s looking for. She stares at a computer all day, mindlessly updating spreadsheets in a windowless, freezing room somewhere deep in the bowels of an old office building (Sixth Avenue, on the dreary stretch in the high 30s). She has one friend in the office, a Middlebury student named David she’ll eventually sleep with, friend on Facebook, and never see again.

At night, she thinks about writing, but usually just watches several hours of The Office on Netflix (again) before falling asleep and waking up to do it all again.

It’s a summer wasted, but her resume needs at least one line above her high school summer job making sandwiches in a suburban strip mall, right?

Right?