On Strange, Poor, Ambitious White Women

“The woman came out into the waiting room of the editor’s office with a tight, thin lipped smile, with her eyes distantly cast onto the ground before turning to the editor, who had followed her out and cheerfully shook her hand before abruptly turning back and letting the door slam, as if to remind everyone that her warm demeanor previously should not be mistaken for a shot at a prolonged business relationship. Dressed plainly in a rusty red tunic with a dark denim overcoat and wide, pale blue trousers, the newly-rejected author wore an outdated and ill-fitting outfit that suggested she once, before childbirth and marital issues, had the time and money to piece together a stylish ensemble, but now it was what she wore on occasions that required her to look nice and she could not afford something from the nearby H&M. She stood, shaken, facing the closed door before turning to exit, suddenly adopting the air of someone who has been defeated and did not want anyone else to know. She looked me in the eye as she walked briskly toward the door, tossing her head back over her shoulder to say “good luck with that one!” She added an exaggerated, throaty laugh, as if she was amused rather than crushed, but inwardly pacifying herself with the thought that the editor must simply be impossibly hard to crack, and taking comfort in the idea that if she couldn’t do it, I certainly couldn’t either.”