She pushed PLAY, suddenly bringing Sabine’s slightly high-pitched voice into the room. Bess put her chin on her fist and cocked her head, closing her eyes to listen to their conversation. There was sweet Sabine, guiltily discussing the lack of creative inspiration in her life, and there she was—a rabid dog, hot on the scent of vulnerability. I sound like Linda Tripp, Bess thought to herself, horrified at the thought. She was practically attacking Sabine, Naomi, and Charlie with her questions. Bess wondered if she was just particularly sensitive to the sound of her own voice or if she really was that much of a piranha. She suspected that it was a little of both. Subtlety was not her forte, true, but this technique was laughable. She supposed it was fine if her subjects knew they were being interviewed, but any undercover work required a more delicate touch. She made a mental note to ease up on her pitbull routine. “I mean, do I even want to be writing anymore?” asked Sabine, her voice barely registering against the drone of the busy bar, “or do I just think I do?”
