Simon was thirty-two years old, with light brown hair, thinning, much to his dismay, around the temples. His Ivy League pedigree (Harvard Class of 1999) was unsullied by a master’s degree from Northwestern’s School of Journalism. After a stint of serial employment as a publicist, Simon settled into a freelance career as a political commentator, working his way up from semi-paid contributor to a staff position at the Red Post. As a newly-minted associate editor, he oversaw the commissions of younger, freelance pundits who were looking to break into the business. Lacking an interest and aptitude for organization, he spent more time writing his own pieces and plotting a break into book publishing.
Simon grew up in Clayton, Missouri, a leafy suburb just west of St Louis. He always felt like an outsider at Harvard, a non-legacy student whose parents were decidedly lower middle class. He gravitated to subjects dealing with politics, like government and history, and, despite his parents artistic proclivities, never took a course in literature or the arts. This was a more or less self-conscious effort to fly away from the parental nest, the disorder of a bohemian upbringing, the random character of his parents friends, and the summers spent at a hippie camp in North Carolina with other artists’ kids.
Slender, light brown hair falling over her shoulders. Her face was neither attractive nor unattractive, but more often than not it was twisted into a peculiar countenance. She was never seen in anything other than casual attire, concealing her fit frame and chaste bosom. Here voice was alternately child-like and forthright, a mixture of shyness and conviction.