Mandy is quiet. She is pretty, in a sensible way, and likes equally pretty but sensible shoes. Mandy is a thinker. She has a great idea that just needs the right person to get it off the ground. That person may or may not be Mandy.
Her boyfriend, Dave, is more edgy and rumpled, and urges Mandy to be a bit wilder; Dave likes a bit of chaos with his love.
Monday dawns roughly. Mandy slips out of bed without waking Dave and heads to the bathroom without turning on the lights. The ambush happens as she reaches the kitchen, toweling her wet hair and debating between a hurried bowl of granola at home or a cereal bar en route.
This morning has some fight in it. It’s laid her crocodile belt as a booby trap and dispatched dress pants and a blouse to land the first blows. As the scaly leather cinches around her right ankle, she steps on the buckle and goes down clutching her heel. The pants kick at Mandy’s face while the blouse sleeves muss her hair. Mandy is going to look like hell for the staff meeting. Not a good impression.
She puts up a fair struggle. This battle has no clear victor. At one point, the blouse twists into a rope to snap at her thighs like a whip, and becomes wrinkled beyond simple ironing. The dark pants bristle with carpet lint and a cuff lets down its hem.
With five minutes remaining to get into some clothes and onto the streetcar, Mandy bodyslams her fight-weary shirt, flattening it against the kitchen tiles and using her shower-hot belly to steam out some of the more obvious creases. The pants can be fixed with a staple or two at the office; the belt, that traitor, stays home today.
Strappy heels and a lunch bag packed the night before, and out the door, running fingers through her freshly tangled hair. A cereal bar wrapper (raspberry-filled) pokes from her breast pocket.