by Cassi Clark
It was the shoes, those fucking Manolo Blaniks, with
the stiletto heel and up-curved pointed toe that
extended a minimum of three inches from the end of
your toes. They were all the rage, so she had to have
them. Sex and the City gave them away to the first ten
people who texted answers to show related questions.
Carrie Bradshaw worshipped those shoes, so of course,
Stacy had to have them too. If it was â€œin, hip, or
trendyâ€ Stacy had it in multiples. Sheâ€™d saved up for
months for her first pair of designer jeans. Now she
has separate drawers for each jean designer. Her
handbags: Italian leather Marc, Louis Vuitton and
Versace. Her coats were Dior; her dresses, Cavalli;
and her sunglasses, Fendi. Even her swimsuits were
Dolce & Gabbana.
She paid for all her must haves with Visa and
MasterCard, and she paid Visa and MasterCard with tiny
stipend she earned as a fact checker at W Magazine.
Sometimes theyâ€™d let her raid the sample closet; it
was her dream job. She hid her high-altitude mountain
roots well, knowing who was who, what was what and
most importantly who and what were in. Whenever Iâ€™d
make fun of her, sheâ€™d assert that she was going to be
the one who chose what was in.
I had a meeting uptown near her office, so I opted to
wait for her. As usual she was running late. Primping
and painting herself in the latest fashion always took
longer than she expected.
The grace with which she sprinted in heels was
mesmerizing, but not infallible. She almost fell
descending the stairs to the turnstiles, catching
herself with the rail. Recovering her stiletto
balance, she swiped her Metrocard just in time to leap
through the trainâ€™s closing doors behind me, barely
getting this seasonâ€™s white Coach bag in before they
The driver screamed â€œDonoblockthadoors,â€ the doors
popping open again. A slim blond man in a Dsquared2
tuxedo shirt and Diesel jeans leapt into the other end
of the car. Stacey oohed over his labels, noting how
his azure blue eyes exactly matched his shirt. I stood
listening to her babble on creating fantasies with him
as the star. Just before the train stopped she decided
we needed to move closer to him.
The train lurched forward as she stepped out of the
doorwayâ€™s protection. She screeched a little as her
Manolo heel caught in a groove and she started to
stumble. The crowd split, a natural New Yorker
reaction to avoiding personal-space intrusions, I
guess. I reached out to steady her, but missed; she
fell face first into the center pole; her neck
snapping back. The doors opened and the train emptied.
Recovering my shock I rushed to her. The first new
passenger screamed. Her body lay in a crumpled pile of
cashmere and silk; her Manolo Blaniks, freed from
their catch, perched like a display window on her
upturned tangled legs.