People are coming out of a building – two women exit from a skyscraper in a large city. It’s mid morning and taxis are skittering by in a halt – jerk – slow – halt – slow – jerk type of rhythm. Neither seem too interested and head in separate directions. To the left leads the 5’10”, 115 lb, brunette pony-tailed model. Her white capris defy the dirtiness of the city around her and her teal silk top flutters softly with each passing car. She walks firmly, confidently in her cork, 4” wedges. An orange Birkin bag hangs with purpose from her left shoulder. Oversized Gucci sunglasses obscure her face. Her Este Lauder lips are contorted in anger and a single strand of hair has been pulled slightly loose on top; it jiggles like an outlined jello mold with each forceful step. Carion birds take off at her approach.
To the. Right leads a 5’5”, 150 lb, dyed blond, brown roots exposed, graying, former prom queen. A gray aura exudes from her as if eking out of her very pores. Her white jean skirt, a size too tight, stops short of covering her varicose veins while her turquoise, spaghetti strap shirt hangs loosely like a muumuu. Her once perky top now reaches out to socialize with her belly button. A very worn purse left over from the 80’s hangs from her right hand down to her exposed knees. A swollen knuckle with a single fleck of blood clenches the bag – threatening to cut off circulation. An absence of tan encircles her left ring finger.