Stephanie Marie: A One Sentence Story
Although Stephanie Marie was an
uncommon woman (she liked football, plopping down on her couch for hours every
Sunday and Monday night- NFL or college; it didn't matter- and charcoal-grilled
steak each night for herself on a well-rusted grill that had been given as a early
birthday present by her father two months before he died), the more he got to
know her, the more predictable she became in the way she lived her life, as if
it had not changed in almost five years to the day -the night she had gambled
with her life by stepping into the unmarked car of a stranger, not knowing
where he would take her or what he would do with her; she returned a changed
woman and when she woke up every morning at 7:13 (a time that was somehow
ingrained into her brain), needing 13 minutes to fully wake up from the moment
she opened her eyes to the time she stepped into the shower, which was always set
to the most blisteringly scalding temperature the rusty dial allowed and lasted
until every drop of warmth had washed down the drain, she would eventually find
herself standing in her underwear in front of her closet, picking the same
shirt she had worn the day before (she had bought her entire wardrobe at Macy’s
in a single trip, two days after that fateful night) in a different color, a
pair of grey or black slacks that would not draw attention to her uncomfortably
wide hips and heels that were “practical, yet sophisticated” as she liked to
say, she knew that she could never return to the fickle, carefree child she had
once been.
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