Was it really worth fighting for? she asked herself. What would winning this one achieve? He wouldn’t change. Neither would the magazine. But, Jesus Christ, if only he would let her do her job sometimes.

Virgil looked at her appraisingly. She looked away. He sliced the tip off a Romeo y Julieta.

“I know you think I’m nuts, Sylvia. But I’m telling you like it is. This isn’t Time or Newsweek or Emerge. This is Umbra. I wish it didn’t have to be this way. But as I’ve always said, black folks need dictatorship. For all his faults, Mussolini did a lot for Italy. He held that place together … And by the way, accounting says they’re missing hundreds of dollars in expense receipts for this feature. Deal with that quickly, please. It’s already becoming a problem or else they wouldn’t have told me about it. Anyway, that’s all I have to say right now. I need the chair you’re sitting on for a meeting.”

Sylvia left the office at the end of the day hating her job more than ever. To make matters worse, she got drenched on the way to the subway. When it began to rain, she put up her umbrella and a freckle-faced kid in a baseball cap grabbed it and ran away. As she chased him she tripped and fell and her skirt sailed over her head.

A homeboy with a gold tooth gave her a hand. And as she stood there thanking him in the pouring rain, he asked her if he could “fix her drawers for her.” She told him to go fuck himself and hustled underground.

At home she showered and changed into a white T-shirt and had more coffee with some of her cookies. Folding her legs beneath her, she sorted the wad of bills that she’d been carrying in her portfolio for the last week. Work had been hectic. So she hadn’t had a chance to take care of a few things. Which made her angry with herself. She always paid her bills on time. Her credit would have to be perfect if she wanted to buy her house. Banks decline black applicants routinely.

Working through a hierarchy, starting with American Express, she finally came to the envelope that she’d found that morning. By the time she went to bed, she’d read the letter thirty times.

Dear Sylvia,

I should’ve called you, shouldn’t I? I think writing is better though. Certainly in this case, because some things sound so silly when you say them. Actually, writing letters can be silly too. Like right now I feel silly doing this. In fact as I’m writing this I’m having visions of you in the back of a classroom, showing it to the other girls and giggling at my handwriting. No, you strike me as the type who would read it to the class from the top of the teacher’s desk.

It was really good to see you tonight. At first I felt guilty for being happy that Claire didn’t make it. But being in your company washed guilt away and replaced it with another feeling that shall remain nameless to protect the innocent.