Claire let out a low chuckle at the otherâs response. It was sad, really, to see the girl in front of her now. In the older womanâs opinion, Nadia was known in the business for all the wrong reasons, with a portfolio as unstable (or what Claire could only assume) as her career. She even looked unstable, and definitely looked out of place in a place like this. Claire had already said her piece on the matter, though, on the screens of hundreds of thousands to see - quite harshly if she did say so herself - that she was honestly shocked that the other wasnât too hostile towards her tonight, as many of the victims of her rating-hounding segments were.
Something in Claireâs subconscious immediately looks down upon writing that isnât news. Academia and fiction aside, non-news writing was never serious writing. Magazine articles, blog posts and, god those godawful podcasts⊠Claire could roll her eyes into the next dimension at the thought of these people calling themselves writers with their whole chest. And something about Nadia mixing a cocktail of respectable and downright embarrassing writing ticked Claire off. And everyone knows what comes next whenever that happens.
But there was something about what Nadia said - dough, and buzz and wiggling your way to the top - that caught her attention, though she wouldnât give the other the satisfaction of acknowledging that.
When Nadia goes off about her granddad and the Rosellini rant, Claire leans against the bar and simply swirls her wine in its wide glass to get a good whiff of it, savoring the flavor that was to follow. She literally could not care less - and did she really think thatâs the topic of conversation whenever she and Nick met? Amateur. âIâm afraid that the intricate politics involved with the New York subway system wasnât on our agenda today, sorry.â Sounding condescending as always, taking a sip from her wine. âWorking on anything at them moment?â She asked, leaning into her space a little more.
dumb. little. blonde. nadia can almost hear the click of claire's tongue with the upspoken judgement that's rolling off her in waves. she's wearing the rainbow northface shirt under a brown hemp jacket and she's got a vintage new yorker tote hanging off her shoulder with the extended bandana straps â she's belongs here just fine.
maybe she hasn't brushed her hair in three days, or maybe that she's chewing the stuffed olives so openly that she hardly bothered getting them off the tooth pick. the little twitch she sees in claire's eyes makes the judgement worth it. it's knowing exactly what the other woman thinks about her work and her medium that makes her grin wider.
"pshaw," she lolls her head in a way that implies a no, sliding her hand back to brush her hair away from her face and her fingers visibly being caught in a tangle. she uses her elbow to push her forward, invading claire's space the same way she did to her. "ya know well enough i hardly do watchdog stories. that's more your thing. you know, when you're not too busy being churnalist click bait."