An Editor

       She sits on the balcony looking over the one way street. Her dress is tight and more suggestive than not. It is a static grey sleeveless piece, designed to keep the wearer cool while also keeping them attractive. She is out having tea, a ritual of hers when she has work to do. Her shoulders are sharp, much like her mind. She does not look the part, but she plays it well.

       Her mind is focused on nothing less than the summer itself. Her pen doubles as a highlighter, useful for marking significant passages through her editing. The two notebooks in front of her carry different handwriting. The smaller floral patterned notebook belongs to her client, while the larger plain dark blue notebook belongs to her. It contains the edited passages of each poem that she had corrected. It is rare that an actual poet comes to her for help. They are generally unwilling to accept an editor's suggestions.

       She lets her hair down. The humidity makes her long brown hair become more wave-like at the ends. While various locks get in the way as she edits, she prefers to keep it down in public. She knows that her position is central to the cafe, and so eyes are most likely on her. She is well aware of her beauty, and she always makes use of it.

       Her name is well known, although her face is not. That is the nature of her work. People can talk, but they can't show. Artists love her. Visual artists have offered to paint her portrait, but she always blushes and refuses.

       It is odd that she has never seen a part of herself in any work of art. She is completely separate from the works which are subject to her critical eye. This separation has made her one of the best in her field.

       The poet that had hired her intended for her to see the vast amount of dedication to expressing her being. But all attempts are poorly composed, and far from the goal. Her highlighting is rare as she dissects the poems with vicious diligence. To her, he sounds like a lovestruck fool looking to impress a woman who has no interest. She's seen plenty of work like this before, and often found that the poet's devotion is to the woman not the art. Normally this results in a few decent lines, as usually they do not write poetry.

       Poetry has always been a love of hers. Of course, poorly written poetry makes her sick, as she sees it as a waste of incredible potential. She has seen many so-called poets be nothing but slaves to cliche and emptiness. The lines she reads now are no different. They forsake and and all originality to express nothing but an over-worked ideal of beauty. They are possessive and contradictory. One lie praises her as a queen, while another reduces her to a simple object.

       The editor takes a quick sip of tea before she gives up on her task. The poems that she was hired to correct do not even belong to the so-called poet. They belong to Petrarch, as degrading as they are. She stands up and immediately heads into the cafe. The woman working is very familiar with the editor's methods of refusal.

       “Another love-struck fool?” The woman asks as the static grey dress comes into her sight, concealing the true nature of the editor from those who may be watching. The so-called poet's notebook is slammed on the counter.

       “I need to be more selective with poets.” The editor sighs as she looks at the dreadful collection of what someone thought was actual poetry. 

       “One pot, or two?”

       “Two.”

       “That bad, huh? Okay.” The woman behind the counter places the notebook in a nearby sink, and then goes into the cafe's kitchen. She grabs two regular sized teapots, one black and one white, and then places them by the kettle. She returns to the counter, where the editor is no longer standing. The editor had wandered off to the wall of tea in order to select what form of tea might be appropriate. She moves quickly, unwilling to waste more time on the bad poet, and hands the large jar to the server, who immediately reads it. “Blue Lady today? Your poet is going to love flavored black tea after this.”

       One teaspoon of the dried tea leaves is placed into one pot and then the other. The hot water is added and a timer is set for five minutes. The server brings the teapots by the sink, setting them down on a nearby counter.

       “Does her know you do this?” She asks the editor, who answers with a shrug.

       “It was in the contract that he signed, but he did not seem to be the type of person who reads important contracts. He will likely throw a fit when he finds out. Perhaps that may inspire some half-decent art.” The laugh that follows her little speech is both hopeful and disappointed. She has not gotten a decent editing job in a month, as her usual clients are suffering from incredible writer's block. Everything they put down on paper is no better than the lovestruck fool's poems. They know better than to ask for her help.

       “Should I start recommending you to writing clients of my own? Some of them write with a consistent passion, unlike your more recent clients.” She offers like she had some time ago. The editor considers it. The cafe is how she met some of her best clients, although she fears that she had already gotten all of the good ones.

       “I suppose so, but do not introduce me to any today. I need to head home and read some Keats before I lose all hope in today's poetry.” The editor replies in a tired tone. Her work is difficult in the way in which it challenges her view of modern art. But she is no fool. Bad art is universal, but so is good art. They require each other, a ying-yang of art.

       The timer goes off, signalling that the tea is now strongly steeped. The woman behinds the counter motions to the opening that allows her to enter and leave the employee area as she wishes. “Want to do one too?”

       The editor grins. “I would love to.” She joins her friend behind the counter. Each one of them grabs a teapot before moving to the sink. Their eyes meet, and then they begin to pour the steaming hot tea onto the notebook. A quick hand opens it so that the tea may wash away the poorly constructed poems, to destroy them for all time. Once the cleansing ritual is complete, the two women leave the notebook there to dry. One goes back to work, and the editor goes to finish her own pot of tea. All in a day's work.

-Zero