Inside an auditorium touched with old charm and bright sunlight, pictures of vibrantly colored, high quality art hang on white walls. Each one boasts a silver, award winning sticker on the bottom left corner. A long table sits centered on the stage, where four people are seated. Someone stands before the table; a middle aged man with a wild gray-black beard waits as a white folder is viewed. A young woman evaluates the drawings within the folder, flipping through oil works of brown forests, gray nature landscapes, and pale blue oceans. Her expression is uninterested as she looks over the plain work-one of the girl's eyebrows arch.

Grace Heather glances away from the artwork she finds to be too tasteless for the agency. Her cute face is set on her decision as she slides the portfolio to someone beside her, no longer intent with the work. One by one, the others at the table silently judge the artwork, while Grace stares ahead at the client, collecting herself with a raise of her chin. "Your work is too...blah," Her voice announces confidently. "There aren't any specialties. Our company is striving for cutting edge, bold and unique pieces, and sadly this isn't that."

The client's mouth drops. "Ha!" His tone goes blunt as he looks around offendedly before stepping forward and snatching the folder from a judge. "THIS IS ART!" He yells rudely. "I'M NOT GOING TO LET A TEENAGER TELL ME OTHERWISE!"

"Sir, please relax," A professionally dressed woman, who sits at the middle of the table, says calmly. The fine age of thirty compliments her nicely.

"No, I will not! Who are you allowing to work here? This is unacceptable! It's too blah? What the hell does that even mean?!??!!"

"Please, sir, Ms. Heather is new. If you could control yourself, that would keep things civilized."

"I don't care, no, someone needs to be fired." He eyes Grace, fuming and stuffing his work into a black duffle bag. "A real agent needs to be sitting there." The man storms away, down the aisle of a dark wooded auditorium, flashing his middle finger. "Expect this experience reviewed on yelp and on my blog!" He leaves, allowing the door to slam behind him.

A few members at the table murmur and shake their heads. The woman stands, her bleach blonde-hair shinning. She bares a stern approach. "Quiet." Silence builds slowly between the agents at the table as the boss faces Grace. "Grace," the woman says slowly.

"Yes, Ms. Watson?'

"Explain why a client's work isn't acceptable by breaking down the unsatisfactory details, render the evaluation to appear less harsh as well. I know it's a bit tough; you're still in training... but you must be more specific. No more time can be given to you."

Ms. Watson gestures to a colleague who turns to face Grace. "The lighting was wrong, trees had shadows when they shouldn't have, the water had no reflection, and the coloring was too dull and lacked excitement." The colleague adds, nodding encouragingly.

"Precisely." Ms. Watson agrees. "That is the proper way to address a client's work. Also, remember to be thankful for their submission and give the client the motivation to try again. End the appraisal with, 'I wish you luck on your adventure.' She sighs. "This process is difficult to grasp...but you must be more specific. Please improve yourself."

Grace bites her lip and hides shock; she thought the reason she had given was valid enough. Embarrassment flushes her spine, her chest rises swiftly, yet she delivers a formal nod. "My preparation will improve next time." The group gathers their coats and bags from around their chairs before leaving the auditorium. Each of them inaudibly disappointed with her amateur judgment...again. The presence of body tingles and prickling hotness attacks Grace's forehead.

She has been working for Spirit-Draws for a month now and still has no potential progress. It had been hard getting the hang of the assessing criteria. Being an art agent wasn't as easy as she thought it would be. In her eyes, this was a dream; since she treasured drawing, but the position turned out to be a mistake. Nothing but failure is felt each day. She doesn't respond appropriately, and training wasn't any better. Grace takes a deep breath to clear away a choking knot stuck in her throat. Her shaking hand pulls out a phone; her sad brown eyes read a brand new text that shows across the screen.

Text: Did it go well? 😬

Grace: Not really...

Reply: Aw. 😔 Do you want to meet up and talk about it? IHOP?

Grace: Yeah, I'll be there in a few; thanks, ur the best, Hanny. 😊

Hannah: Hey, what are friends for? 👯