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Sara B. is losing her cool.
Not just in the momentary-meltdown kind of way—though there's that, too. At the helm of must-read Snap magazine, veteran style guru Sara B. has had the job—and joy—for the past fifteen years of eviscerating the city's fashion victims in her legendary DOs and DON'Ts photo spread.
But now on the unhip edge of forty, with ambitious hipster kids reinventing the style world, Sara's being spit out like an old Polaroid picture: blurry, undeveloped and obsolete.
Fueled by alcohol, nicotine and self-loathing, Sara launches into a cringeworthy but often comic series of blowups—personal, professional and private—that culminate in an epiphany. That she, the arbiter of taste, has made her living by cutting people down…and somehow she's got to make amends.
rest but the constant ping of my e-mail makes everything impossible. I rap the side of my computer with a curled knuckle. Eva’s still standing behind me, silent but for the quiet shuffle of her feet. I knock on the side of my computer again as a burst of ping-ping-pings signals the arrival of yet more e-mail undoubtedly demanding my resignation. But it hasn’t been twenty-five years: I won’t get a watch or a shitty roast beef dinner buffet at some economy motel that must have a discount rate for
under my arms and soak through the stretchy material of my dress. I wish I could wear sleeveless, but my upper arms are too fleshy and the skin underneath swings if I talk with my hands. Eva walks to the end of the driveway and stops. “You coming, Sara?” We’re walking? “I wasn’t sure if we were driving or—” “It’s six blocks, silly goose.” We’re walking. My underarms are getting wetter and I suppose stinkier with each step but I can’t stop to do a sniff test in front of Eva so I keep my arms
you. Ciao.” I am not such a bitch. Planning to attend the funeral of an old lady I only met once, who happened to have had a mythical collection of vintage fashion magazines is not a bitchy thing to do. I am not a bitch. I know Jack likes me to be a bitch and that people say I’m a bitch, but I’m not—not really. It’s Ted who’s a bitch, for turning all parenting pundit and telling Eva about Gen’s tacky reality show before telling me. Gen could have, should have, told me, I know, so she’s a bitch,
find Ted, drunk on cheap cans of beer, answering the door in his boxers, his eyes red from crying and consumption. I won’t offer him even one of my Advil. I instruct the driver to go up the main street and then turn so we drive past Eva’s parents’ house. From there I know it’s six blocks, a left and two rights. This may not be the most efficient way to get there, but it works and the driver doesn’t complain: the fare comes to over forty dollars. I ring the doorbell and practice my face—looking
applied if I had. I go to grab the bottle of pink champagne from the top of the fridge, but George already has. He hands me a glass. I think about him fucking me in the bathroom. I love it. I think I love him, but I can’t because it’s too soon and I’m tired and fucked up and my nerves are rising and I wish I had more Ativan. George puts his arm around my waist. “You should be enjoying this,” he says quietly into my ear. The party is clearing out as people move on to another or go home to bed.