Her skirt was ironed, the petal pink done in straight-arrow pleats, the bottom seam flattened squarely. Unbeknownst to Charles Montecito, hysteria seeped from the woman’s pale petticoat and up through her floraled collar. She was, as they say, hysterical. By way of design or experience, or clobbered hash browns of the two, she was flat-out-and-straight-across a hysterical woman.

Hands in her lap, she waited on a sofa while the December issue of Poetry Today waited in a state of discernment across the room. Being Poetry Today, it didn’t have interest enough to whisper disdain in response to her arrival, so it just remained as it was, in its place of belonging.

In spite of the conditions, she recited, “I really appreciate this opportunity, I want to thank you.” This was not audible to anyone in the room, including Poetry Today. “It’s a privilege to even be considered and I recognize the responsibility involved.”

The way she’d practiced, it sailed from her mouth like the whisk of a wand. Gracious, humble, articulate, sharp, without threat. She was the perfect candidate. Sitting in the wide pleated skirt, shoes gleaming, face charming and warm, she was an added decoration to the room. The centerpiece even. Not the least bit hysterical. On the contrary, when the man entered the room, he immediately concluded that she must be some kind of angel.

“Miss Noelle, I presume? I’m Charles from Montecito Magazine.”