Little Drama

“Cracked Upon Closer Inspection” by Delaney Rose Burke

The wedding guests are escorted into the lobby of the Forrester Playhouse. Where the door widens, the pace quickens. Everyone spreads and finds a corner to huddle and speculate. Ushers, unaware, serve champagne. The guests mock toasts: To the happy couple! Magda joins the line at coat check and waits with her hands folded. It takes a moment, but she locates Boise at the bar with his friends, fellow playwrights, and they look relaxed with their elbows against the glass bar top. The hallway between the lobby and bar is darkened, which makes Magda feel like she is eavesdropping. Boise’s voice carries: We should keep this party going, yeah? When the attendee returns with Magda’s fascinator—a dark purple hat with feather and ribbon outstretched into the shape of seaweed—she comments on the hat, how unusual it is. My husband knows someone in millinery, Magda explains. She keeps the hat at her waist and moves to a wall.

The playhouse manager pulls the ushers aside and talks low in their ears. They retreat into a small office, and when they reemerge, they shepherd the guests out the front door. Work together to form a sort of funnel. Laughter spikes from Boise and his friends. The manager approaches, closes the bar and shoos the tender. Magda hears him say: Come along now, please.

When Boise appears at Magda’s side, he’s sober, still. Magda can tell. She is only one person in his vision. Solid and straight on. The skin above his lip is damp from the seltzer water, and he licks it clean. We’re getting kicked out, he says.

I heard. Magda straightens his tie. I guess that’s what happens when the bride and groom don’t show to their own ceremony.

They must have eloped. He pauses, considers. We should have eloped.

My mother would have killed me.

But it would have been so romantic. Don’t you think? It would have been worth it.

I don’t know. I would have been dead.

Boise kisses her cheek, and, while he’s bent, he slips the fascinator. You don’t like the hat? He places it on his own head.

It looks better on you.

Don’t take it personally. Most things do.

Outside, the night is still young and thrumming and bitter with the promise of snow. They group under the marquee to button their coats. Boise helps Magda into hers. Some of Boise’s friends approach while her arm is positioned awkwardly, caught at a fold in the coat’s elbow.

I heard Ivy’s buying us drinks, one of the playwrights says. He is the one Magda recognizes as the man who snuck a cigarette in the theatre. He had been reprimanded, and Boise had mouthed to Magda, Bad taste.

Talking about me? the playwright had joked, stubbing it out on the wedding program. I’d say it’s worse taste to leave your wedding guests waiting for a goddamn hour.

Ivy scoffs. I’m not buying you anything. You’re already drunk.

I’m not, Boise says. But I’d like whisky. A malt whisky. Neat. He taps his palm with his pointer finger. Are you writing this down?

Ivy looks to Magda. Is he serious?

Boise does not have a drinking problem. This is what he tells people. Though, it is not uncommon for him to have a beer or two with lunch, a bottle of wine with dinner. Magda knows about his university years. The years when Ivy knew him. He is better now than he was then, but he is not entirely better.

He has been good tonight, Magda says, because it is true, because she feels she owes him. There is relief in their reconnecting. Magda feels it. Just two months ago, she and Boise were married. Just two months ago, they could have faced this same kind of humiliation. In their relief, they have become kinder to each other now, this evening. 

Ivy says, You’re only getting bottom shelf from me. You could stand to be humbled.

Oh, as if Boise needs to be humbled after that last review, one of his friends says.

At least I get reviews, Boise says, but he’s smiling.

I’d rather be a nobody than a public failure.

Well, that’s a good thing, then, seeing as nobody’s heard of your work. Boise clears his throat. Remind me, how many people attended your last performance, then? Ten? Eleven?

And half of those people were us, Ivy adds.

Magda flushes. She does not talk with Boise about his work in a serious, knowing way because she can’t. Not really. She was a secretary. A job she hated. Magda does not know anything technical about theatre beyond if the show, in her opinion, is good or bad. She offers congratulations without flattery and support without inflated optimism. After knowing him for two years, she feels Boise prefers it that way—her distance from his work. Sometimes, she gets the sense that he likes her more because she is removed from this aspect of his life, and therefore, cannot ever taint it. She worries sometimes, and no, she would never tell him this, that Boise likes having an excuse to close himself away for hours at a time. To disappear from the reality of their lives together and fiction a new world from the deep stirrings of his private imagination. There is a part of Boise’s life that she will never know, never have access to.

But there are aspects of her life that Boise does not know; how she sweats at the feeling of velvet, that she sometimes craves the cold shock of a brain freeze, and of course, that she hates her work. It’s fine to have these things. She also understands the value of keeping herself to herself.

Ivy props herself against Boise’s shoulder, her cheek on his coat. They’re jealous of you. You know that, right? Magda hears Ivy say, so softly she knows she was not intended to hear it.

The moment passes, and they talk about idle things before the cold becomes unbearable and someone orders cars. Conversation happens in disjointed groups, and by the time it reaches Magda, she is informed they are heading to Miss Sheri’s.

Ivy frowns. The strip club? What’s wrong with you people?

Magda turns to Boise. Do you really want to go to Miss Sheri’s? she asks, by which she means, I don’t want to go.

Would you go with me?

Magda feels obligated to be charitable to Boise. For one thing, they are newlyweds. She does not want to fight. But she also desperately does not want to go to a strip club.

I don’t know, she says.

I mean, Boise starts. He takes off the fascinator and places it on Magda’s head. If I did go without you, would that be a problem? Would you care?

Maybe a little.

A little? he asks. Just a little?

He moves closer to Magda and reaches under her coat, places his fingers just below her waistband. His hand is cold, and the shock of it, of his skin on hers, sends goosebumps racing down her leg.

You can come with me, Ivy says to Magda. She does not realize Boise’s hand is on the top of Magda’s buttock. I’m taking a separate car.

Magda asks where she’s going. Anywhere that isn’t a strip club, Ivy says.

Ivy is thin in a way that suggests disordered eating or drugs or secret illness. Magda does not know her too well but worries about her—a distant worry that is no less sincere. Ivy is a choreographer. The only one of Boise’s true friends who is a woman.

You should go with her, Boise says. Have a girl’s night.

While you have a girl’s night of your own.

He laughs. That’s clever. You’re a clever woman, Magda.

When the cars arrive, the Forrester Playhouse is closed. The marquee sign turned off. The group is split into thirds, and Magda winds up in a car with Ivy and someone’s boyfriend. She and Boise say goodbye to each other quickly, and he kind of shrugs at her, like what can you do?

In the backseat, Ivy flips through her clutch and pops something into her palm, into her mouth. Magda is relieved when she smells mint. It’s just mints.

Can I have one? she asks, and Ivy obliges. There was no dinner because there was no reception. She is starving.

I’m starving, the boyfriend says from the passenger seat, as if reading her mind. Ivy redirects the driver to a nearby restaurant.

 It is not yet eight, but already the city is blanketed in night. Traffic around the playhouse stalls, and they sit for a while before finally moving.

Everyone seems to have the same idea, Ivy says, looking out the window.

To head up a strip club after a failed wedding?

It’s too bad, but not entirely surprising, I guess, the boyfriend says over his shoulder. Magda asks what he means. If you knew Juliet, the boyfriend says. You would understand. 

Ivy turns her attention from the window. She looks Magda up and down. Pauses. Do you actually like that hat? she asks. I mean, no offense.

Magda smiles. No, she says. Not at all.

***

At the table, Ivy introduces the boyfriend as Talon. Magda understands this is not his real name, but it’s not a stage name either. Talon is shy and doesn’t seem the type. She learns that he’s dating some director whose name Magda vaguely recognizes, but she says, Oh, yes! Yes, of course! when Talon tells her.

The restaurant is chilly. Magda keeps her coat, though she knows this is rude. The lighting is bright and icy, and she feels she must squint against it reflecting off the glassware and marble. And, she knows this is also rude, but she’s shed her heels under the tablecloth.

They have just ordered drinks when a matière d approaches and asks if there is a Magda at the table; she has a phone call from an Edward St. James.

The glass on the phone booth door is foggy. Beyond the window, the restaurant looks distant and takes on an almost magical quality, like Magda is approaching from offshore. The receiver is damp, and she wipes it with a napkin before putting it to her ear.

Hello Edward, she says. She does not get to use his real name often.

How’s the food there? Boise asks.

We haven’t ordered yet, but it looks expensive. How did you know we were here?

You assume this is the first place I called, he says. Clears his throat. I feel bad about the way I left. I should have kissed you goodbye.

You can kiss me when I get home.

But how many opportunities do I have to kiss you on the street? So publicly? In front of everyone I know and love?

Next time, you’ll just have to kiss me twice in front of everyone you know and love to make up for it. Magda pauses. The music is loud there, she says. She wants to acknowledge the strip club without feeling like she is accusing him of anything. She sits on the corner stool, and it’s hard against her thighs.

Yes, you would think they would turn it down. Have some class at this strip joint.

A short silence.

Well, I’m here with Ivy and Talon, Magda says.

Who the hell is Talon?

He’s dating that director. I mean… the one whose name starts with a G. I think.

Is Talon tall? Boise asks, and Magda thinks for a wild second that he is jealous she is spending the evening having dinner with a man that is not her husband. Because if he’s tall, then you’re in trouble. George’s new boyfriend is tall, and I’ve heard he’s an ass.

We were sitting in the car and then sitting at the table. I don’t know how tall he is.

When he gets up to go to the bathroom, look out for it.

I’ll make it a top priority.

It sounds like Boise is moving on the other end of the line. I was trying to get in touch with Juliet earlier.

Juliet? The bride?

I’m worried about her.

Magda does not know Juliet well, like she doesn’t know Ivy or Talon or any of Boise’s friends beyond simple pleasantries. But nobody at the playhouse seemed too worried that she hadn’t shown to her own wedding, Talon had even said as much in the car, so Magda didn’t concern herself with it.

I’m sure she’s fine.

I don’t know. Probably. You’re probably right. But still. It’s strange, isn’t it?

You’re really concerned.

Maybe a little.

A little? Just a little?

Boise laughs. Are you parroting me now?

Just… Magda doesn’t want to say, Enjoy yourself. Have a nice time. Just don’t get too ahead of yourself, she decides.

The conversation ends soon after that, with Boise promising to be home by one, telling Magda to wait up for him. Magda tells him to wait up for her if she and Ivy and Talon decide to get crazy.

At the table, drinks have arrived. The martini has onions instead of olives, and Magda scoops them out before drinking.

How’s our Edward? He’s feeling remorseful? Ivy asks.

Magda swallows. The drink is stronger than she thought. He wishes he kissed me on the street, she says.

That’s kind of him then, to call, Talon says. Now that she sees him better in the light, she takes note of his dark suit. It looks large on him, untailored, like he is a child playing pretend. When he lifts his glass, the sleeve of his dress shirt slips from underneath the cuff of his suit jacket. Magda feels an unwarranted but profound sense of pity for him then, and she blames it on drinking on an empty stomach.

Yes. He’s kind when he wants to be.

The drink catches up fast, and by the time her meal arrives, Magda sways on the edge of drunk. She places her napkin across her dress to keep from spilling. She doesn’t trust herself to lift her fork to her mouth in one clean swoop.

Tell me about Juliet, she says. What’s she like?

Talon shakes his head. She’s flaky. Undependable. You couldn’t guess?

She’s terribly charming, Ivy says.

Oh, she is, though, Talon agrees. He’s stuffed his napkin into the top of his dress shirt, like a bib, and Magda decides she likes him very much.

Magda asks how they all know each other. Through the theatre, naturally. She gathers that Juliet has been around for a while. There is a close circle.

She’s an actress, then?

She was, once, Ivy says. She doesn’t act anymore, says it doesn’t become her. Whatever that means.

Talon laughs. It means she married rich.

She was going to marry rich.

Maybe they eloped, Magda offers.

Talon points his spoon at Magda from across the table. I would believe that, he says.

No, no. Juliet is finicky but not impulsive.

Do you not remember her last stage performance? She almost didn’t go on.

But she did go on.

I heard, Talon says, and then he swallows, keeps his head low. I heard she might be in love with someone else.

Magda coughs. What? Really?

Talon, let’s not, Ivy says.

I just heard of it. I can’t be sure.

Well, I just heard that George used to be married to a woman, and may still technically be, but you don’t hear me telling people about that, now do you? Ivy says.

Everything about Boise’s friends is eccentric and foreign to Magda. They are principled and stubborn about things that do not matter at all—how to park in the city, the proper way to wash a dish. They remove their shoes before entering her home but smoke inside instead of on the balcony. They curse at each other and say truly awful, biting things, and the next day are right as rain without apology. It’s hard to tell now if Ivy and Talon are all right.

Ivy, please. That’s old news, Talon says.

Maybe we should talk about something else then, Magda says. She looks around for some kind of inspiration. How’s the soup?

I think it’s rude to speak ill of the bride on her wedding day, Ivy continues.

There was no wedding, Ivy. Juliet didn’t show. Like usual.

Talon. Enough.

I’m just saying that I’m not surprised, is all. I already told you that in the car.

My chicken is quite good, Magda says to no one.

I didn’t expect you to take up for her like that, Talon says. Forget I said anything.

She’s my friend, Talon. That’s what you do for your friends.

Magda continues, And the broccoli isn’t bad, either.

After the meal, Talon excuses himself for the bathroom, and Magda quietly confirms that he is not very tall. This makes her feel good about herself, that she had the right instinct about him. She likes to do this, confirm that she has the right instinct about people.

Magda pays for the meal on Boise’s tab, without much protest from Ivy. She fumbles for her heels under the table, and in doing so, realizes that she may be more drunk than she thought.

Outside, the women stand under the valet awning and wait for Talon. And, because they’ve forgotten about the cold, move closer together. Ivy slurs something to Magda that she can’t understand, and as Magda asks for clarification, Ivy laces her arm through Magda’s and holds her hand. The whole orchestration of it happens in slow motion, and is at first a bit alarming, as if Magda is underwater and piecing together her sensations as she sinks. Ivy’s touch is warm and clammy. Her fingers all knobby bone.

In the light from the awning, Magda sees the sweat shine at Ivy’s temples.

Are you okay?

I made up that lie about George. Well, part of it anyway. I just wanted Talon to feel badly.

Is it because you’re worried about Juliet? I mean, should we be worried? Boise is.

He is?

Yes, he told me on the phone.

Ivy asks what he said, and Magda repeats that he had tried calling Juliet.

Ivy huffs, and her breath clouds in front of her. It’s too cold out here, she says, and the women move back into the vestibule.

I really do think I had too much to drink, Ivy says. I didn’t lie about that part.

Magda agrees. She cannot remember the last time she had so much. She almost trips on the doorframe.

I’m worried, but I’m not worried, Ivy says. Does that make sense? Everyone thinks they know Juliet, the kind of person she is. But they don’t. Not really.

I understand what you mean.

Of course you do. You’re a woman.

Maybe we should be worried, then.

Ivy blinks rapidly, and for a moment, Magda worries that Ivy will be sick. She takes off her coat, offers the hood for something to be sick in, but Ivy laughs and pushes it away.

Wait, she says. Where is your hat?

My hat?

That big purple one.

Magda’s stomach drops. She puts a hand over her mouth—at first to hide her shock—and then to conceal her laughter. It flies out anyway, slippery thing, and soon both she and Ivy are laughing so hard they cannot stand. Magda places her palm against the wall to steady herself.

How outrageous. How fitting. She’s forgotten her fascinator in the taxi.

***

Magda’s apartment seems smaller in the dark. She feels for the light while Ivy sheds her coat and says that she’s glad to be rid of Talon for the night, thanks Magda for letting her come over. They move into the kitchen, and Magda is in the middle of suggesting coffee when she notices a shift at the dining table.

Juliet, she says.

Juliet is in her kitchen.

Juliet is not facing the doorway, but Magda knows at once that it’s her. She has never seen Juliet without some elaborate costume onstage or dressed for an afterparty or charity dinner. She is in shambles. When she turns, Magda sees Juliet’s makeup has gone runny. Her hair is half-done, partially in a braid, partially loose and down to her shoulder. Her face is splotchy red and swollen, and Magda, still sobering, asks if she’s had some sort of accident, if she’s hurt.

I’m sorry to scare you, Juliet says. I didn’t know where else to go.

Ivy does not say anything. A stillness settles.

Magda swallows. How did you get inside?

The spare key. I know where it is. Juliet offers a shy smile. I don’t make a habit of coming into your home while you’re gone, if that’s what you’re thinking.

The spare key, Magda repeats. She looks around her kitchen, as if to confirm that it is her kitchen, that she is in the right place.

I had some chips, I’ll be honest. They looked good, and I hadn’t eaten because well…

Nobody says anything for a long while.

I’m making coffee, Magda says, moving to grab the can from under the sink. Even with her back turned, she feels the palpable tension mounting, and she cannot bear to face it.

I came because Boise called, Juliet says. He said you went to dinner.

Magda waits for Ivy to say something, and when she doesn’t, Magda confirms the dinner.

How nice. I bet that was lovely. Did you have salmon? We had ordered salmon for the reception.

Does anyone know you’re here? Magda asks over her shoulder.

No, and I’d appreciate it staying that way. As you can imagine, a lot of people are probably upset with me right now. She laughs half-heartedly.

Why are you being so flippant? Ivy asks. Her voice is cutting, and Magda flinches.

I’m not being flippant.

I see your ring is off.

My ring is on the bathroom counter. I was thinking about having a shower.

I defended you, Ivy says. At dinner. To Talon.

Juliet stands and moves to the fridge, removes the gallon of milk and finds a spoon in the drawer. Magda is alarmed by how comfortable she appears to be in her apartment, the way she knows where things are.

Talon’s opinion matters very little to me, Juliet says.

He’s not the only one who thinks you’re unreliable.

Do you think I’m unreliable?

I just said I defended you at dinner.

You know that your opinion matters more to me than Talon’s, and yet, you didn’t really answer the question.

Ivy clears her throat. In this moment, yes, I think you’re being immature.

Perfect. So, I’m unreliable and immature. My fiancé sure dodged a bullet then, didn’t he?

Yes, I’d say he did. And you know what? I’m glad he did.

Juliet throws her spoon on the counter. It lands with a clang. You’re insufferable. Can’t you see that I’m in pain?

I don’t think you’re really interested in being married, that’s all.

And yet, you defend me at dinner!

Ivy’s face reddens. In front of Talon. I would defend anybody in front of Talon. Who does he think he is, what with his suits that don’t fit and his married boyfriend. 

I take it you like milk with your coffee, Magda says, as she finds and arranges the mugs on the counter. She does not understand what, exactly, is going on, but she imagines this situation would be a lot easier to parse if she were not still buzzing from the martinis.

It does not help when Boise enters the room, as if he were dropped from the sky, and grabs Magda by the elbow and leads her to their bedroom. His suit jacket is off, is wet at the hem, she notes, and his tie is loose and crumpled in his fist.

When he closes the bedroom door, Magda throws up her hands. She cannot seem to gather her words into coherent meaning.

Boise nods. Yes, I spilled on my jacket. I know. I’m having it dry cleaned in the morning.

Juliet is in our kitchen.

Yes, Ivy, too. That’s why I got you out of there. He unclasps his watch and lays it on the dresser. You know, I paid the driver an extra twenty to speed.

They act like they hate each other.

Boise snorts through his nose. That’s a mild way of putting it. He pauses, then squints at Magda and takes her chin in his hand. Well, well, well. Mrs. Magda St. James. You’re drunk.

I am not drunk.

He smiles. What did you have? A couple martinis?

I had one martini.

And then another one. Maybe two more after the first.

Magda concedes. There were onions instead of olives.

Onions. How awful. Boise drops to the bed and slides off his dress shoes without untying them. The stink from his feet rises a short while later, sour and damp.

And I suppose you got your malt whiskey neat. Room temperature.

Ah, so you did write it down. I knew somebody would. He pats the bed for her to sit, but she doesn’t move right away. Instead, she puts her knuckle to her chin, folds her lips into her mouth.

What’s wrong? Thinking about the onions?

It’s just. Magda feels so silly when the tears well. She shakes her head, as if to dispel them. I was afraid that you were having an affair with Juliet.

With Juliet? Boise laughs, and it’s an honest laugh, felt in the ribs. Magda watches his body shake. Then he clears his throat and quiets, lowers his voice. My love, why would you even think that?

The spare key, Magda says. She’s used our shower. The milk.

I don’t understand.

And Magda sees, truly, how Boise really does not understand. So, yes, she did marry a man who likes to feel unknowable, but this part of him—the part that loves her—she is relieved to know there is no misunderstanding there. When Boise pats the bed for her again, she sits this time and leans into him. He smells of liquor, but it is not unpleasant. In a funny way, it reminds her of her dentist’s office, of something clean and sterile.

Are we going to hide in our bedroom, then, until they leave?

I can think of something we can do to pass the time.

Magda laughs. I’m serious.

I’m serious, too.

I don’t want to feel like we’re hiding in our own home. Maybe you should talk to them. From the hallway, Magda hears the muted swell of the women’s voices.

Boise reclines on the bed, and his T-shirt rides up to expose the pink, fleshy stripe of his stomach. Magda pats it. His skin is slick.

Give it an hour, he says.

An hour? It’s already past midnight. What do you mean an hour?

If they aren’t out in an hour, then I’ll go talk with them. Just relax. Boise closes his eyes. I might take a little nap. You know, when I said something to pass the time, I meant take a nap. He opens one eye. Did you think I meant something else?

I’m not tired.

You will be.

I’m not tired, Magda repeats. If you aren’t going to talk with them, then maybe I will.

And say what? Ask if they want milk in their coffee?

Magda goes hot with embarrassment.

Darling, look. Boise sits. This is not something we can help solve. They have to figure it out themselves.

Figure what out?

Boise kisses her forehead before retreating to the pillows, throwing the covers over his chest. Wake me in an hour, he says and is snoring within seconds of shutting his eyes.

***

In the morning, Magda hovers in debate about confronting Juliet. The woman is in the kitchen, once more making use of their food. Boise is still asleep. From the hallway, she hears Juliet pause. The sink shuts off and a plate lands in the sink.

You can come in, Magda. It’s your house.

How did you—?

Boise wouldn’t have waited around the corner, she says.

Magda sits at the table, and feels, oddly, like a guest in her own home. Juliet is dressed in the same clothes as the previous night, though her face is now red and scrubbed bare. She’s tied her hair from her face and is wearing a dish towel over her shoulder.

I didn’t mean to still be here, Juliet says. I was planning to leave before you woke up.

And Ivy?

Gone.

She’s gone home?

Sure, Juliet says, in this kind of condescending way that makes Magda feel like she’s gone somewhere more obvious, apparently, than her own home.

Juliet sighs and sits across Magda, reaches for her wrist. Her hands are damp from the sink, and there is a bit of egg, pale yellow, on her thumb. The piece of egg makes Magda want to forgive her for everything.

Boise doesn’t know, Juliet says.

Magda considers a correction, but Juliet is still holding her hand. He thinks you and Ivy hate each other.

He’s oblivious when it comes to women. Do you find that?

Magda laughs, thinks about the purple hat. He can be, she says.

Juliet removes her grip. When did you come to suspect? About me and Ivy?

I couldn’t get to sleep. I was thinking about it. The way you fought, I mean. There was passion there. Boise and I don’t fight like that.

Well, you shouldn’t fight. You’re newlyweds.

You think marriage is boring. You ran away from it.

I did, but not because I think marriage is boring. I think it’s quite nice, actually. Juliet stands, folds her hands together. Do me a favor? Though I’m in no position to ask. She smiles, looks down. Don’t tell Boise. I’m not ashamed. I’m truly not. But there are some things I want to keep just for myself, you know?

Magda pauses. Boise doesn’t know that I quit my job.

Ah, Juliet places a hand on Magda’s shoulder. So, you have a little something of your own. That’s nice. I think every woman deserves a little drama of her own. She picks up her bag from the floor and swings it over her shoulder and throws the towel away. Well, I suppose now’s as good a time as any to face the music, huh?

You know, Magda says. She feels a knot forming in her throat. She is talking to Juliet. She is talking to herself. I think that you deserve to be happy.

Back in bed, Magda throws her arm around Boise and leans so that her mouth lingers above his ear. So that she is on top of him, and her weight presses into his shoulder. He grumbles.

Boise. Boise? I need to tell you something.

He mumbles into the pillow, and she cannot hear him. He tries to roll over but can’t. She has him.

I hate that hat, Magda whispers. I hate it.

About the Author

Meghan Dairaghi (she/her) is a St. Louis-based writer. Her fiction appears in Alien Magazine, Orange Blossom Review, and londemere lit, among others. Her debut novella, How Far a Night Can Reach, is forthcoming from ELJ Editions in 2026. 

about the artist

Delaney Rose Burke is an emerging artist, working in mixed media painting and in copper etching and mixed media printmaking. Currently living in Toms River, she is actively developing her painting and printmaking portfolio. After receiving her BFA from Stockton University, she went on to explore a career in corporate design in Los Angeles. Following her move back to New Jersey in 2019, she became a board member at the John F. Peto Studio Museum, in Island Heights, New Jersey - where she currently volunteers as social media co-chair and as an art committee member. Her work focuses on pushing the traditional and process intensive medium of printmaking into pieces closely resembling the emotional and impulsive nature of abstract expressionist art. She often employs bold colors, textures, and emotive elements in an abstract expressionist or figurative manner in her painted works.