Sara sat waiting. Sara didn’t usually wait and it was purely ambiton that allowed her to on these occasions. Fashionistas and pseudo-bitches came and went. Too and frow, employees doting or scurrying to meet their demands. Why wasn’t she the bitch or the fashionably bored, she wondered. Sara seathed under the weight of it and comprised the grand speech she was about to unleash before Della. In all it’s glory. She edited quietly to herself. This word has more impact. That word won’t measure the detest that she feels for the work she has been given lately. Use fuck alot, she thought. Fuck felt good, anyway. And Sara was done to the point that fuck summed it all up.
Della opened the door and traded phony cheek kisses with some washed up wafe. Della glanced over and met her eyes like a transient and proceeded to escape back in to her lair. “Della!”, she blurted just loud enough that idle chatter paused for an instant . Like the pause of birds in trees above the intersection where a car crash had taken place. Sara grabbed her oversized bag and hustled toward her office. “Ms. Lacreese cannot see you now”, the assistant tied the turn around her entrenched fort of a desk right as Sara’s momentum was at it’s zenith. With her headset on like some demented assistant director she spat out, “Look. Ms. Lacreese is too fucking busy for… you”, she said as she did the head the head to toe gaze with so much dismissal. Before the poor, jaded receptionist broke her pregnant pause Sara bore up a torrent of anger so writhing in evil she could barely contain her contempt. Sara leaned into her, “Let me tell you something you little social climbing, my prerogative, blond ambition, fag hag. I’m either going to see Della for 5 minutes or i’m going to spend 1 hour pulling your heroine sheik hair out one strand at a fucking time. So go chase a flavor of the month before I eat your fucking lunch for you.” The revolt sent Della back to her door. “Jane, heal. Sara, in, now!”, she said, commanding the authority of her position in a laissez-faire, whre house kind of immediacy. Sara entered and Della slammed the door. “Your in sister and I have exactly two minutes to eat a stale poppy seed muffin so you better make it count.” Della didn’t even skip rhythm as she swung around the desk like Nadia Cominiche on the uneven bars, “go!”. Sara took one breath and let go her baggage like a sky cap during the holidays. “I’m going to speak plain because I want to believe you have my interest at heart. But, if I do one more Penney’s add i’m gonna take aphotogs tonsels out with my bare hands. Look gay, sweety. Look innocent, pumpkin. Bible belt, honey. Remember, we’re selling bras not brains. If I have to put up with this sunday rag bullshit for one more shoot i’ll be the one doing the shooting. You gotta be fucking shitting me Della? Seriously! You are supposed to be the best. I signed with the best. I want to work with the best. The goddamn ungrateful princess’s you have trolloping around the stable aren’t shit. You have done more of their miniature schnauzzers bidding then you have done to help my fucking career. So in a word what the fuck are you gonna do for me? Or let me out. Cause, I just can’t Ms. Lacreese. Not anymore. I’ve got pain enough for every Leibovitz that wants to snap a fucking frame and i’m wasting on Sears inserts and Saturday specials? No more…no more.”, she breathed again as Della pointed down. Sara sat and put her hands in her hair. Wasted, she slumped, caring nothing for manner or poise.