Monica| Inner Poise

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Monica Conrad stared at her reflection in the full length mirror on the back of her closet door.

She liked to keep her closet organized, but not too organized. Whites with whites, off-whites with off-whites, navy with navy, black with black. But that was it.

Jeans were tossed in a heap on the closet floor, and there were dozens of them. It was almost a game to close her eyes and feel round and come up with a pair that used to be too tight in the ass area but fit a little loosely now that she'd cut out her daily after-dinner milk and chips-Ahoy routine.

Monica looked at the mirror, scrutinizing her outfit. Her marc by marc Jacobs shell pink cotton blouse was fine, as were her peg-legged seven jeans. She then hid the whole ensemble under her favorite belted cashmere Loro Piana cardigan.

She opened her bedroom door and yelled down the long hall and across the uptown seventy-second street penthouse's vast expanse of period furniture, parquet-floors, crown moldings and French impressionist paintings. "Mom! Dad! I'm going over to a friends house! I'm spending the night!"

When there was no reply, she clomped her way to her parents huge master suite in her noisy Kors wooden-heeled sheepskin clogs that she'd bought on impulse, opened their bedroom door and made a beeline for her mom's dressing room.

Helen Conrad kept a tall stack of crisp emergency twenties in her lingerie drawer for Monica to parse from--for taxis, cappuccinos and the occasional much needed pair of Manolo Blahniks.

Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, one hundred. Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, two hundred.

Monica counted off the crisp bills, folding them neatly before stuffing them into her back pocket. She grabbed her mother's leather Jimmy Choo tote, emptied it and threw in her few belongings. She then sent her mother a short text on her whereabouts, and headed to the elevator and down.

Outside it was breathtakingly cold for Cecil fell, a small city 1 hour 28 minutes outside of the Big Apple. Population: 356,000. It was supposed to be sunny summer, Monica blamed global warming.

She walked ten blocks to a popular café which was the after school hung out for preppy school kids, being one of them herself. When she finally arrived in front of her destination she waved away an approaching waitress and sat down at a secluded table.

She then pulled up her phone, opened up her text messages and contemplated the note on her screen, her fingers begun to shake and her heart for whatever peculiar reason sped up just a tad.

4pm. East 82nd street, Haven Café. Don't be late. Wait for the sign.






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