“A true woman smiles in trouble, gathers strength from distress, and grows brave by reflection,” – her mother’s aphorism echoed and face appeared in Emery’s mind as she looked at her own reflection in the ladies’ bathroom mirror. At twenty, she had imagined where she would be in life and what she might look like; considering the time spent working towards her ambition of becoming a celebrated journalist, she looked as she thought she might at forty. True, the crow lines that traced around her exhausted hazel eyes were a bit deeper than she had pictured at the prime of her youth, and there were wisps of grey starting to show between her auburn hairs, but she knew that aging had to eventually come, especially from long nights of dedicated writing and editing – one could overlook such payoffs.

She filled a dixi-cup with water and walked out.

The sun blinded Emery when she walked into the editorial department towards her corner where she copy edited – the little floating particles in the air were illuminated by the exposing rays. Walking through the labyrinth of cubicles and desks, she thought of her own hidden desk at the opposite end of the floor, way back near the exit door that no one ever would use unless there was a true emergency, and how it had no floating objects because the sun never reached that part of the building. This was how it had been since she had first entered the “real world” – she was placed into one shadowed corner after another. It had been like this for her mother and her grandmother also: trying to move up in the world without the help of an affluent husband or degrading their morals. She grew up soaking in these familial affirmations of integrity, and yet, she watched both women work hard and die young without any compensation for their ethics or their strength.

While listening to the president of the college go on about the students’ futures during her graduation, she made a secret vow to herself that once she had her own private window to watch the sun rise every morning – her own office and floating particles – then she would have “made it;” something most women in her family could not do. When reaching her metal desk that had grey paint flaking from the sides, she sat down, emptied the cup full of water into her bamboo plant, and began editing the day’s pile of stories.

When old Tom Bengtson’s (the managing editor) opportune heart attack occurred the previous week, Emery did not hesitate to place her over-qualified resume into Mr. Matthews’ – the owner of The City Herald – mailbox for consideration. His office included everything she wanted: wood and leather furniture, ivory-colored walls (instead of lime-green carpeted cubicles), a bookcase and a window overlooking the city from twenty stories high. Even though she had been a copy editor for over nine years at the prided publication, she did not feel confident as she felt her life’s work, and her fate, slip out of her control and into the bigoted fingers of a man who had repute for noiselessly refusing to advance women past a desk editor’s title. Of course there were those women who tried to slap a sex discrimination lawsuit on the sixty-something year old balding tyrant, but nothing ever stuck. From suits to lawyers and mistresses to restaurants, Matthews demanded the best. Because he had the funds to back up his desire for authority, the “sex-suit women” (as they were jokingly titled around the office) were always denied any financial satisfaction. They eventually left the Herald for a more egalitarian atmosphere on a second- or third-floor profession and ended up, Emery thought, in the back corner illuminated only by florescent light. In the name of pride, she considered, they were removed from the one place that could improve their status in this hierarchical profession and world.

Emery sat in her corner meticulously editing the day’s stories for tomorrow’s paper when Wayne Madres – the editor-in-chief and Matthews’ personal assistant – walked up to her corner.

“I see that you’re interested in Bengtson’s job,” he said with a deliberate smile. Emery did not think that he was physically an ugly man. In fact, she was sure that many women melted for him. But he was the typical fifty-year-old “suit:” dyed black hair that was slicked back, intentional stubble that framed his angular jaw and well-moisturized hands. He knew that he was attractive. This, to Emery, was ugly.

“Your work has been impeccable here at the Herald and you’ve certainly put in your time,” he continued.

She mirrored his appearance: a mimesis of etiquette and ambiguity.

“Why thank you Mr. Madres.”

“Please, it’s Wayne,” he interrupted her with a deliberate grin – his teeth were white and straight, which was also deliberate.

She paused and smiled. “Thank you Wayne; it’s nice of you to say so.”

He walked to the empty chair next to her desk casually. She could smell the musky amber cologne on him.

“If you don’t mind me asking, when will the formal interviews begin for the managing editor’s position? I know a few of us have been inquiring,” she said nonchalantly yet with commitment.

“Between you and me, Mr. Matthews doesn’t believe that formal interviews are in order for Bengtson’s job,” he said, still smiling. Emery smiled back, noticeably confused. “There are only two of you who even qualify for the title and Mr. Matthews would like me to closely watch both of you over the next week to see who is more,” he paused and thought for the best word, “passionate, about their future here.”

She smiled uneasily and looked down at her navy skirt, smoothing out wrinkles as a distraction from his grin. For nine years, Emery had dedicated her professional life to going above and beyond the other women and men at the paper; she knew that it was the only way that Matthews would notice her performance and one day consider her for a higher position. Through all the asinine remarks and chores he, or Wayne, had put her through, she bit her lip keeping the ivory-colored window office always at the front of her mind.

“I’ve been watching you for the past week already, and would like to speak with you later this evening… in private… about what the job entails,” Wayne broke her thoughts. His voice had dramatically lowered. “You know, to get a better idea of what you’re willing to sacrifice for this promotion. A job like this takes a lot of dedication.”

She knew immediately what he meant. Emery had been told of other women in this kind of situation – the kind that gained power by momentarily giving it up – but never had she ever been in this kind of corner. She had thought of all the “sex-suit women” and if they too had been faced with this decision by Wayne or Matthews; if they had chosen to keep their pride and freedom intact at the cost of lowering themselves professionally.

Her mother’s words sounded in her head again, but this time there was no mirror for her to look into, only Wayne’s grinning face. All she could see was the ivory office with chocolate leather couches, cherry wood bookcases and the skyline view of the city. She would have everything that she had vowed to herself twenty years prior: her own floating particles and her own window to the world where she could gaze over.

“It would be a privileged meeting,” he said more softly, leaning in close enough for her to smell the coffee on his breath. His flushed cheeks were damp – she knew what he was thinking. “It would be a leg up on the other candidate and you know how much Mr. Matthews and I take care of our dedicated employees.”

He paused, “No one would find out, Em.”

No one had every called her “Em” except for previous lovers. And yet, he said it so casually; so instinctively. She could not look into his eyes, and just continued to stare at the long wrinkle on her skirt that she could not iron out.

“I’ll have my driver park in the back parking lot around seven,” he said while standing up to leave. She looked up at him finally, opening her mouth to speak. Nothing came out.

“Think about it; this is your future,” he smirked and walked to the elevators with an invisible bounce in his step that only Emery saw.

“Sex-suit women,” ivory walls and her mother’s voice swirled in her head as Emery fought back tears. She bit her thumbnail and continued her work.

Seven o’clock came too soon and her nails bled with her uncertainty. The black car was where Wayne said it would be and as she walked to it, her heart jumped and then fell. Stopped. She looked up into the black, starless sky, letting fat fluffs of white snow fall into her eyes. The door opened and Wayne’s left hand stretched out. She paused for a moment, letting the cold numb her, and grabbed his hand. The cold made her insensitive to the wedding ring that dug into her palm.

Emery slipped into the shadows and moved her future forward.

* * *

The leather couches were just as comfortable as they had appeared the many times Emery had peeked into Bengtson’s office on her way to lunch. And, the cherry wood desk was just as polished. However, the walls were not ivory, as she once had thought; more of an exposed bone, which was soon to be repainted to grey.

She walked to the window and gazed out, over, into the snowy sky that loomed above the invisible people below. Her reflection caught her attention.

“Do you spell you name with one of two ‘m’s,’” the engraver asked as he worked on her office door.

“One,” she replied while continuing to stare out the window.

She could lie to everyone, but she couldn’t lie to herself. Emery had moved up in the world. And yet, she couldn’t help but feel that it was just a higher corner.