Stacy works in hedge fund analysis. She works long hours, but she loves it. She finds comfort in numbers, the digits flashing through her computer, her blood sugar count, how many miles she ran on her fit bit band before she goes into the office. No one at work knows she’s diabetic, she doesn’t want to give any of her shouting, amphetamine amped associates any more reason to infantilize her.
In college, she was given a number of nicknames like Spacey Stacy, and Space The Case (as in headcase), because of her ability to immediately go into her work with an unbreakable focus. She was revered as a roommate at Stanford for her indifference to TV shows blaring in the dorm room while she studied, impenetrably locked into her “math trance”.
She has a boyfriend, Stanley Weisman, a stock broker who until recently, didn’t punish her for her tireless work ethic. But lately, his patience has been wearing thin. He calls Stacy from Nobu, they had dinner plans and she’s late, they won’t seat him until the rest of his party has arrived. Stacy keeps a few simple cocktail dresses at the office, they don’t need steaming and are easy to slip on in a rush.
“I’m sick of this shit” he tells her on the phone, and she grabs for this little black dress she has hanging on her curtain rod, but the healthiest part of her brain is still working through the numbers…