Page 46 of IRL: In Real Life
Which meant, in other words, I was needed.
By the time I stepped onto the floor, Zaria was already outside my office with her tablet in hand and a face that said somebody had said something foolish before nine-thirty.
“Tell me.”
She fell into step beside me as I unlocked the glass door.
“The hotel rep sent three mood boards, all of them too pale, and the sponsor contact keeps using the phrase ‘elevated urban sophistication’ like it doesn’t sound like fear.”
I closed my eyes for one second. “Amazing.”
“I thought so.”
I dropped my bag beside the guest chair and took the tablet from her.
Mariah looked up from the open workspace as I crossed back out a minute later. “Where you off to?”
“Saving culture,” I said.
Zaria’s mouth twitched.
Mariah grinned. “Bring it back alive.”
The drive to The Bellwether gave me more city than I’d had time to really look at in days. Construction. Coffee lines. School buses. Women moving fast in heels. Men posted outside storefronts pretending not to watch anything while clearly watching everything. Pittsburgh never fully gave itself up at once. It kept some part tucked behind brick, bridge, and weather.
The hotel rooftop sat high enough to give the skyline a little ego. Glass railing. Good light. Enough square footage to make bad design especially offensive.
The rep was waiting for us in a blazer too thin for the wind with a smile that said she had already used the word curated three times today.
I let her talk.
Then I walked the space.
That was the real part of my job. Not the deck. Not the polished language. The feeling of a room. Where people would pause. Where they’d drift. Where the DJ should go. What the bar needed to look like so people photographed it without it looking desperate. Where Black people actually wanted to stand when they were dressed and outside and deciding whether a space had enough life in it to deserve them.
Burton Creative could produce a beautiful night. They had the network, the vendors, the photographer, the kind of name people liked seeing attached to an invitation. But Monarch Rowwas there to make sure the experience did not become another expensive room with no pulse.
By the time I turned back to the rep, I had it.
“No more pale boards,” I said. “This is not a bridal shower, and nobody’s trying to sip rosé inside a beige apology.”
Zaria coughed into her hand.
The rep blinked.
I smiled, so she was confused about whether I had cut her or pulled her into an embrace. “What you want is warmth. Depth. Texture. Gold, yes, but not too much of it. Rich woods. Darker florals. Better lighting at the bar. And for the love of God, no generic acrylic signage with fake-script font pretending to be luxury.”
The rep looked down at her notes. “Okay.”
“And if the sponsor wants urban sophistication,” I said, “tell them to stop acting scared of color and let the room have some blood in it.”
That got a laugh out of Zaria before she could stop it.
The rep looked startled, then amused despite herself. “You have strong opinions.”
“I have useful ones.”
Afterward, Zaria and I grabbed coffee downstairs instead of heading straight back.
