Romance In A Column

chapter two,

The thing about the devil is that we've likely stared into his, or her, eyes—even if just once—yet have never seen them for what they are. For what he, or she, is.

It's a byproduct to the countless representations we've seen arise throughout the years. The illustrations of cartoons with skin the same color as the flames he surrounds himself with and heard the murmurs of him being the epitome of sinful beauty, a true angel with ragged edges.

At this point, the odds of the devil being a horned creature, leather for skin and gaping darkness for eyes is as likely as cupid being a pudgy child with wild eyes alike a bow and arrow tucked under his literal wings.

Eryn, for one, believes Wyetta Jeff is the embodiment of the devil. Of The Devil Wears Prada, to be specific. Though, from what Eryn has picked up, the woman has more of an affinity towards Louis Vuitton—either a pair of Bridget Macron heels taunting her employees with every step or a Onthego GM under her literal clutch, god forbid the woman is ever seen without a single item of said brand. And, to date, Eryn isn't entirely sure she has.

Consequently, there shouldn't be a reason for that Friday monday to be any different, and it isn't.

Five minutes past eleven in the morning, Wyetta ventures into the floor for the first time since Eryn's arrival. Doned in a sleeveless, a-line dress which Eryn had, nights ago, seen in Louis Vuitton's website under newest arrivals. This is followed by a downhill spiral into an internal conflict between paying rent and spoiling herself with the three thousand dollars dress—ultimately, her willpower shifted her to an adult mindset and ethical approach to the situation, resulting in begrudgingly closing the lid of her laptop. Though pouty, Eryn lives to have a roof overhead for yet another month.

Catching sight of the champagne wool complimenting Wyetta's dark skin, Eryn severely regrets this decision. Though she's wholly conscious that, even if she paired the piece with the red stilettos adorning her bosses feet—whose heels could, and probably have, slice through skin when she saunters over whomever dare belittle her, underestimate her—Eryn could never it wear it half as well.

A dress like that only looks worthy on a woman who exudes the confidence to dare try it to begin with. And as the woman who bare-handedly built a rising empire, and though scarred and callous, wouldn't hesitate to wrap them around an insolents neck—drawing blood with nails that match the shade, Wyetta Jeff is more than that woman. She's the woman for the dress.

Eryn sometimes amuses the thought of Wyetta as a model, the walks down the aisles of desks she performs on a bi-hourly basis serve as enough proof that she could stroll on a catwalk gracefully. Eryn isn't entirely sure her boss has the height for it, but that wouldn't matter. She's long realized the woman's mere presence poises her higher than any mile long legs ever could.

Glancing back at the article before her, Eryn re-reads the first line for the ninth time. But the more she stares, the more her muddled brain forgets vowels and consonants strung together have meaning to them.

She has tried to massage away the weight pressing down on her skull, thumb and index rubbing soothing circles on her temples. But her hangover is persistent and, apparently, obstructive since Eryn hasn't managed to complete a single one of her tasks. Which continue piling up, or rather lining in brightly colored, headache inducing sticky notes—a office-warming gift from one of Nina's college friends—pasted on the bottom edge of her monitor.

But try as she may, Eryn can't get past proofreading Astrid Cohen's article reviewing an overrated, labeled boujee cafe on the Upper East Side.

In other circumstances, Eryn would be immersed in every word, entirely focused on each line because, truthfully, Astrid's column on restaurants, cafes alike coffee shops, sidewalk stands and food trucks on the highest end and middle to lower class neighborhoods is one of Eryn personal favorites. And even though her pockets aren't deep enough for a table at a black-tie dress-code restaurant, it's often Eryn visits the more affordable ones Astrid deems five-star worthy.