Ten Minutes With Stacey
Beth L. Block
I was innocently enjoying my whole wheat sesame bagel with salmon spread and
medium vanilla hazelnut coffee when the door flew open. I don't know which was
more annoying: the fact that her perfume arrived before she did or that she was
talking into her cell phone loudly enough for the women working out next door in
Curves to hear. Even the woman at the table in front of me
This woman, who looked like a Stacey, was "on the go." On the go to where, I'm
not sure. Probably, the cosmetics counter at Bloomingdales. Anyway, Stacey was
about 45, but obviously worked hard to appear younger. She wore designer jeans -
tight, faded, and ripped in all the right places. To protect herself against the
elements of the northeastern winter, she chose a stylish open down vest, which let in
more cold air than a drafty old barn. And she was thin. Very thin. In fact,
between her stick figure and her nervous motions while she waited in line, I couldn't help but think that Stacey was either one
of those affluent, suburban housewives with a nasty cocaine habit or a tragic
victim of obsessive compulsive disorder.
Thankfully, she finally ended her phone call abruptly when her turn to order
came. I thought, "Watch. This woman can probably eat whatever she wants because
she has a personal trainer and, besides, she's a speed freak." Sure enough, she
ordered a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich with salt and pepper--oh, and a large
cup of coffee--since she wasn't hopped up enough.
I watched Stacey walk to her black Lexus SUV, which was taking up two spaces in the front row of the parking lot. As she gunned it out of there, the cell phone was, once again, against her ear.
First published: February, 2006
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