A Man's World

"Jim_MEY!"
"Damn!"  She had jumped so hard that her finger had slipped and now three "f's" resided in the center of her perfect typed copy."
"Best run, word has it that good ole' Charlies on the warpath and all the junior editors are in an extra pissy because of it."  She nodded and reminded herself not to simper- it had taken a good month for her to remember not to try to flirt her way out of trouble here.  She still had to pinch herself to remember to answer to "Jimmy;" on her very first day she had almost given herself away when she hadn't reacted with enough gusto to the questionable pictures of showgirls that one of the copy editors had provided.  Sighing she pulled the cover over her Underwood No. 5, her pride and joy and her only possession of any value.  When she had first moved to the city she had paid for it dearly; ruefully running her hand over her slowly returning brown locks she wondered what her friends and family would think if they could see her now.
The editors office was never a safe place for an aspiring reporter, you were twice as likely to get fired as you were to get words of praise.  Steeling herself she pushed in the door.
"About time, Mullen.  Sit."  She did, reminding herself to keep her legs spread wide and not cross her ankles as her cotillion teachers had once so forcefully instructed. 
"Now, I've read your latest article."  She kept her eyes on her knees, barely letting herself breath.
"And It's horse shit.  Mullen, you've got a good brain for prose but no one cares about this nonsense.  People want a REAL headline, Bobby Millers been writing up a piece on prizefighting and I'm fixing to run it on the front page."
"I'm sorry sir, I just thought-"
"Stop thinking!  I don't pay you to think, I pay you to write."  She sighed, inwardly.
"Yes sir."
"Now, I have an assignment for you, something that people really do want to read about.  Some society lady from Boston is in town and she's throwing a charity ball down at the Metropolitan Art Museum, go see if you can chat her up, get her story.  Shouldn't be too hard of a job, pretty ladies, plenty to eat-after the shit you send me I shouldn't be rewarding you like this."  She nodded, rising and brushing her trouser legs off as she did.
"Saturday night, nine pm.  Oh, and Jimmy?  Don't give me any more of this shit."  He slapped her article into her chest and she turned, letting the door close behind her.
Back at her desk she slid the rejected article into her bag.  "Hundreds of Women Assaulted by British Police in Brutal Attack against Peaceful Protesters."  Her British brethren would have to wait.  Silently she cursed whatever Bostonian aristocrat was making her leave her impassioned writing for a night of silly talk and town gossip.  Reaching her hand into her pocket she let her fingers graze the black velvet box that she had taken to carrying with her.  Timothy no doubt had given up the ring for lost, along with his would be betrothed- but somehow by holding the ring she felt closer to him and closer to home. 
Though she hated to admit it, Sarah was just a little bit homesick.