That is until my cute and not at all practical for winter weather heeled booties skid and slide on the ice. My arms flail and my hands fly as I try to counterbalance the slip of my feet, and in the process, the plastic top of my drink snaps off and douses my cashmere camel-colored coat in a wet mocha mess. “Fuck!” catapults from my lungs because even though I’m upset about my coat—it’s my favorite—there is no stopping my trajectory, and no matter how I move or twist or try to plant my feet, I’m slipping fast and furiously. “Hold on!” someone cries out. “I’ve got you.”
