The Last Word
I'm heading towards a lunch meeting near Times Square, walking north on 6th Avenue, when I fall into step with a woman, cellphone to her ear.
Everything about her screams "Fuck the glass ceiling!", from her bridge line Donna Karan power suit to the Blackberry clipped to her Burberry. She is striding purposefully, confidently, her business-bobbed hair bouncing pertly as she takes steps that seem a bit longer than her legs should allow.
I'm listening to her ream out someone on her cellphone, some underling, I assume, at first.
"No. No. No, no, no, no, no, NO. Are you listening to me? I said NO! Absolutely not."
We stop on the corner of 50th Street and she continues her tirade, sucking in a few tourists and businessmen.
"Why are we arguing about this? Are you listening to me? No. No. You never listen to me. You never listen."
The people on the street are listening. The light changes and we all move into 6th Avenue.
Halfway across, she speaks again, "Fine. FINE. Do whatever you have to do. But let me tell you this: If you EVER thought that I loved you, you have been kidding yourself for a long time!"
And she snaps the phone shut, with an upward motion. The guy next to me shoots me a look and purses his lips, blowing out air. I nod my head in agreement. When we reach the far side, the woman steps over to a reflective store front, where she reassesses herself.