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Plans and Plaids

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Winifred Zivio’s life was based around two central truths: marry for money and never sign a prenup. After sixteen years of constantly moving to accommodate her mother’s flighty personality and husband of the month (or longer depending on yearly income), Winifred had come to the conclusion that love was merely a myth and marriage was an old-fashioned out of date tradition designed for people to cling hopelessly to another human being in a desperate attempt to feel less alone in life. Or, in her mother’s case, a way to pay for designer handbags. In contrast with her unreliable mother, Winifred planned out every excruciating detail in her life from what she would have for breakfast the next day to the company she was sure to be running by the time she hit thirty. That’s not to say that Winifred didn’t plan on marrying one day if the opportunity presented itself, because if she had learned anything from the long line of step-fathers making their way in and out of her life it was that money is power and connections are important. A marriage to the right man would mean certain doors that would otherwise be locked up tightly being left wide open, and Winifred knew that to make her twenty year plan a reality she would need all the open doors she could get.

Dressed in the clothes she had carefully laid out for herself the night before, Winifred strutted out of her uptown loft that “Father Figure” number five had paid for in the divorce settlement while mentally going through her schedule for the day. She was halfway through her mental checklist when she reached into her designer bag to triple check that she had brought along the proper book for her two o’clock reading time by the duck pond when she collided with a wall of plaid. The contents of her bag spilled out on the obviously unsanitary sidewalk and Winifred let out a rather un-lady like curse under her breathe, fearing that this delay would cause her to miss her nine o’clock meeting with the New York Times and blacklisting her with all major newspapers in America. She would never run her own company by thirty at this rate! If she couldn’t even keep a firm grip on her bag, how would she possibly be named most powerful woman in the nation?

Looking over at the poorly dressed mess of a man scrambling next to her on the ground in an attempt to help her gather her belongings, she couldn’t help but let her glare soften slightly. It was hard to glare at someone who had the look of a lost puppy dog, even if that lost puppy dog may be putting her entire future in jeopardy. She was probably being dramatic anyway. Sparing a glance at her diamond encrusted Tiffany’s watch (courtesy of “Father Figure” number seven), Winifred was reminded that she had left her apartment an hour earlier than necessary to ensure her punctuality. Letting out a sigh of relief, Winifred rose gracefully from her crouched position to converse with the cause of her brief mental breakdown. The second their eyes met Winifred nearly reeled back in shock from the pure green that collided with her own sparkling blue.

Well, cr*p. That was not part of the plan.





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