Pru climbed the marble stairs to the lobby, flashed her badge at the gate scanner, and headed to the elevator bank. Any time she had to come to this building, she took full advantage of the sound of her stiletto heels click-clacking across the marble floor.

“Remember, making it look easy makes you look more talented,” her mother had said about wearing heels, playing guitar and cooking a perfect soufflé. “Glide, don’t clomp.”

In the 111 East lobby, she walked heel-to-toe quick and fast, with giant strides that made her look like a giraffe trying to wade through Jell-o. She didn’t care how it looked: it was the sound that she loved and that made people scatter out of her way.