3rd person narrative

From the outside, she emitted an attitude of complete composure and calm.
Thank God for yoga, she thought. On the inside, she was a bundle of nerves.
Walking east on Sixth Avenue, she began to run through her mental check list.
Resumé, check.
This was the biggest interview of her career. She couldn’t help but wonder how she would stack up against the competition. After all, she had gone to college, gotten good grades, and made it through without any significant screw-ups. She pulled out her compact from her purse.
Make-up, check.
She was a city girl at heart, growing up in Manhattan and never having the desire to leave. So when she started looking for a job, she had two requirements: one, she needed to stay where she was at, and two, she refused to take “no” for an answer. Settling was simply not an option. She reached up her hand and touched her blond curls bouncing in rhythm with her step.
Hair, check.
There it was, Burke & Burke Financial, one of the biggest investment banking centers in Manhattan. The pressure she felt was intense, as if the building itself was resting on her shoulders.
This interview could make or break me, she told herself.
Fortunately, she was smart, becoming skilled at working the system to get her needs met. She knew how to show these company big-wigs that she could handle it. She could make it in a man’s world.

Walking west on Sixth Avenue, he felt like he was in a dream. He had grown up in the land of country bumpkins, otherwise known as rural Oklahoma. He was feeling a little on edge, the interview weighing heavily on his mind. He pictured himself wobbling through a sidewalk entirely made of jell-o.
Jell-o, he thought. It reminded him of his childhood.
His focus shifted as the ominous skyscraper came into sight. Burke & Burke Financial. It looked exactly as he had pictured it in his dreams. He reached up and smoothed the front of his shirt.
Tie, check.
He entered the building and made his way onto the elevator. He felt lost, out-of-place, like a bum off the street begging for a scrap of food.
Brrrrrrr, he thought. This place is freezing.
He rubbed his hands together, careful not to drop his leather-bound portfolio. It had been a gift from his parents. Climbing into the elevator, he saw his reflection in the mirror.
Hair, check.
Ding! “Floor 42,” the elevator announced.
Here we are, he told himself. He felt like this interview could be a beautiful beginning or the means to a tragic end. As he got off, he masked his anxiety as best he could.
Go, Fight, Win, he chanted to himself. There is no day but today, no moment but now.
He noticed a young woman seated at the end of a row of chairs.
Breath, “hah hah,” check.
He strategically sat down in the seat across from her.
“Are you here for the interview?” he asked casually.
“Yes.”
He didn’t know what to say next, and looked down.
Awkward, he thought.
She looked at him, expecting him to go on.
That was strange, she mused.