The Fashion Icon
Sally Spoonbill
Glamorous. Unbothered. Unapologetically extra.
“Pretty in pink… obviously.”
Sally is not at the fishing hole. Sally has never been to the fishing hole. Sally does not know where the fishing hole is and frankly doesn't see why anyone would go.
She is, however, at the club. Third table from the window — best light — working on her second glass of something from a region she can't pronounce but absolutely will. The topic of conversation is Zuzu. It is always Zuzu.
"She texted me a photo of her heart rate at mile 18," Sally told the table. "Eighteen. Miles. On purpose." A pause. A sip. "I simply cannot."
The thing about Sally is she sees everything from that table. Who came in with whom. Who's wearing what. Which egret has been hitting the same sandbar three mornings running and thinks nobody noticed. She noticed. She always notices.
She'll be there until the light gets unflattering. So, roughly 4pm. Plans are flexible. The wine is not.
