Suzy Scruples fired up her Audi TT Roadster and screeched her way out of the Starbucks parking lot. The time blinked accusingly in neon green on her car’s dashboard: 8:55 AM. Blast it! She was going to be late for work again.
It was all her son Timmy’s fault. The chronically forgetful boy had forgotten to pack his lunch in his backpack –even though she’d reminded him three times that morning. Naturally, he’d only remembered once they were elbow deep in gridlock traffic on the expressway. After some awkward maneuvering and a very illegal u-turn, they’d returned home, picked up the lunch, and resumed their adventures in gridlock.
Now Suzy was paying the price. Of course there had been a line at Starbucks, and the apologetic barista had gotten her order wrong. Whatever. The price she had to pay for being caffeinated. The coffee shop was only four minutes from work, but once she had arrived at work, there would be a parking garage to deal with–and three flights of stairs to navigate. Not to mention the hassle of juggling coffee, a purse, and a tote bag while wearing three inch heels.
Somehow, the morning still felt bright and crisp as Suzy slammed the door of her car and shuffled hastily to the elevator. Wedged next to Loud Cellphone Talker, she whipped out her smartphone to respond to her husband’s latest cryptic text: We need to talk.
I’m on a deadline. I don’t exactly have time for phone calls. Make it quick, she texted back.
Call me. This is important, he responded almost instantly. If Suzy hadn’t been so desperate for her caffeine fix, she would have flung her coffee cup in frustration. Instead, she took a deep breath, and exited the elevator when it arrived at her floor. She snubbed the receptionist on the way in, which gave her a brief rush of satisfaction–but only for a moment.
Taped to her office door were two documents. One was a note from her boss, requesting a seventh revision of the 50-page marketing brochure that she was designing. The other note was a legal document with her husband’s signature–divorce papers.
She was about to dial her husband’s cell phone when another text popped up.
Like I said, we need to talk.
Note: This character sketch is meant to be a satire. Be kind to your receptionist and the local barista.