The dishwater blond stood in front of the locked door, oblivious to the world. Clutched in hand, held to her ear, an iphone linked her voice to friends – and strangers. It was a whine fest, sans the crystal goblet or tasty bit of cranberry-enhanced brie.
Hair tied-back, she wore black cotton pants, a pair of black Crocs and a look of utter exhaustion. The line behind her grew, the rest of us enduring the days of her life. Still, she prattled on until someone on the other side of the door mercifully freed us from her stormy existence.