[b]Before the Blackout[/b]
---
“You don’t like the lavender skirts?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Please bore someone else with your questions, Daniel.”
“Don’t be like that, Mandy.”
“Amanda.”
“Well, alright… what about the maroon ones?”
“Maybe. But the padding that Simone supplemented for the adjustment doesn’t work with walk. Joseline is never going to confirm it.”
“I’ll tell him to cut it.”
“Also, tell Natalie that the fabric for the Two-Four Layout needs to be lean, not paunchy. And why, for the love of all that is holy, would she not inform Marc about the Lacroix satchels when she was down at Pier 59 studios, like I told her? Fix this, Daniel.”
“Right awa--”

The poor boy on the other end of the line was suddenly cut off. The usual case would have entailed Amanda hanging up on her imbecilic assistant, but this time the tale told different words. Along with the sudden interruption of silence, the somewhat bohemian, yet stylish loft apartment darkened. Amanda was burrowed deep within her queen sized bed from Oxford Creek Beds—surrounded by concept spreads and layouts, a multitude of different fabrics and designer sketch books, and various accessories—clad in white frames and mattress and complemented with Prussian blue sheets and pillows, when it happened. She observed her surroundings with a hasty glance, deeply uninterested in the situation. To her it appeared to be just another power outage.

A minute or two passed. Amanda had shut her eyes for a moment, but soon realized that sleeping would only make things worse. She jerkily pulled herself up and out of the insanely comfortable furniture with a slight grunt, still wearing the getup of the day—black Jose Jacquard treggings with subtle, greyish floral design, a loose, knitted Doeuillet sweater of some charcoal coloration, and a black top underneath. Amanda was not accustomed to waiting for anyone or anything but herself, thus she aspired to reach the intercom telephone by the front door of her loft apartment and ring the concierge in the lobby. Little did she know or realize that the electronic device was out of service, just like everything else. Amanda vented a loud sigh. She actually had to get herself down to the lobby, in person.

The woman slipped into her somewhat clumsy Chanel high heeled platform pumps of black coloration to match the rest of her outfit. Perhaps it was not the wisest decision of her life, but forgivable considering her ignorance in the situation. Much to her distress, Amanda quaked in terror when she was met by the dormant and silent contraption previously known to her as the elevator. As she stood frozen, her disgustingly handsome neighbor, a man of wealth and success within the world of finance, exited his own residence, set forth by a similar inquiry as Amanda. He gently placed his hand on Amanda’s back when he greeted her.

“Hello, Amanda.”
“Brian, I didn’t see you there.”
“How about this power outage, huh? Creepy.”
“Yeah.”
“Going down?”
“I was hoping too, but the elevator doesn’t seem to work.”
“The stairs? It looks like you could use a bit of help, with those shoes.”
“Right,” Amanda chuckled slightly with her signature deep, sensual voice, somewhat displaying her luminescent white teeth, and tilting her head.

The trek down the stairwell proved to be a challenging feat, as the confined space of some metallic odor was pitch black and because the two high society figures lived above the top floor. Amanda had to be extra careful considering her poor choice of footwear. But her motto had always been to look fabulous even in the face of Armageddon. When they finally reach the lobby and the concierge, the two found a crowd of some dozen people conversing with the full service crew of the building, which included the caretaker, the doorman, the concierge, and the landlord himself. Apparently, the whole downtown area of Seattle was affected, perhaps even more so than that. The other residents of the building seemed frightened and concerned. Rumors were circulating quickly considering most forms of communication were disabled. But Amanda was not amused. She sported her traditional blank stare and somewhat apathetic aura inherit to most people who frolicked in the halls of fashion.

“We’ve already spoken with the authorities and the best thing that you can do is to go back to your apartments and wait,” said the landlord.
“When will this be over?” said some distraught resident.
“We don’t know. Please, just return to your apartments.”

Brian looked to Amanda where she stood with his arm around her shoulders.
“Well, that wasn’t entirely unexpected.”
“I need to get down to the studio. There are a few collections there that I cannot risk losing to looters, or whatever.”
“I don’t think looters are interested in fashion clothing.”
Amanda glanced at Brian with a pallid stare.
“Nonetheless.”
The man hesitated.
“I can come with you, if you want.”
“No. Make sure that none of these rats here break into our apartments, especially mine. I cannot imagine that you own anything of value,” she smirked playfully.
“Now that’s below the belt, missy.”
“Just where I like it.”

Amanda walked as hastily as her Chanel shoes allowed her to down 5th avenue, towards the studio. Her arms were wrapped tightly across her stomach, just below her chest and her head tilted downwards ever so slightly to indicate that she did not want to speak or acknowledge anyone. She was still in ‘work-mode,’ which meant that everyone were beneath her, whereas she would never dress in that attitude otherwise. There was no room for sheep in her line of work. And being the editor of a major fashion magazine, she had to be a megalodon amongst sharks. It was a habit and way of life that she would soon have to forget.

Suddenly, an immense explosion spewed forth when what appeared to be an aircraft viciously descended from the heavens, powerless and without control, and crashed into a building nearby. Amanda was startled beyond anything she had ever experienced before. Due to her rejecting walk and posture, she had not noticed when the aluminum contraption, a work of wonder, fell from some thousands of feet above her. The woman almost tripped over the high heels when it happened, her arms reaching behind her body in an instant to search for a nearby wall to maintain balance against. The scene was horrid and Amanda gasped. The building was set wildly ablaze and people in and all around the structure screamed in terror. Memories of that long lost act of villainy in New York came to mind, as it forever would when concerning aircrafts crashing into buildings.

Amanda suffered a slight panic attack, unable to move or decide what to do. A large collection of people constantly ran past her in some direction of which she was not familiar. A woman stopped and tried to shake Amanda back to reality. “Hello?! Are you okay?” she asked. Amanda did not reply. Instead, she continued to powerwalk in the same direction that everyone was running, leaving whoever it was that had taken the time to see if she was well behind. However, what happened next was utmost unexpected and it almost startled Amanda just as much as the explosion itself: Nicole. The dark haired belle exclaimed Amanda’s name and then embraced her tightly. Still slightly stunned and chocked, disoriented in her speech, Amanda attempted to react.

“Yes… I…what’s going on? I… have to get down to the studio… and pick up the Chéruit… c-collections… Nicole? Darling…”

[b]Present Day[/b]
---
“So, it is then that we get the first premise: there are effects in the world and the universe. You see and hear them all the time. And every possible effect of something must have a cause. When someone with ‘political differences’ shoot at you with a gun, you hear the sound of gunfire, which is an effect of the gun firing the bullet. Therefore, the second premise becomes: any effect derives eventually from a first cause, which gives us the first conclusion: there is a first cause,” said Amanda.

The small gathering of teenagers appeared slightly lost and confused, yet they could somehow connect the dots by relating to things they knew to be real in their daily lives. One of her students—Michael—always sought to challenge Amanda in her teachings of various philosophical subjects. He was an extraordinarily clever young man, whom did not mean to be provocative, but rather learn everything he possibly could.

“Amanda…”
“Just wait one minute, Michael.”

She then continued.

“So, the second phase builds on the first. It starts with the conclusion that phase one is supposed to prove. It adds another assumption and draws the First Cause argument’s final conclusion. Here we have the conclusion of phase one: there is a first cause. The third premise says that if there is a first cause, then it is God. And the second conclusion says that God exists,” Amanda finished and looked to Michael, “yes?”

“I get that there are causes and there are effects and everything derives eventually from a first cause, but shouldn’t that mean that God is an effect as well of some other cause, and wouldn’t that mean that this theory is faulty as it has no beginning or end?” said Michael.

“It’s an interesting point. But when we define God we define it as something all-knowing, all-powerful, and morally perfect, which assumes that God would be capable of self-creation as well. As human beings, we cannot fathom the concept of infinity or something that does not begin or end,” said Amanda.

“But…-”

“This is about something called the Principle of Sufficient Reason… which we’ll talk about tomorrow,” Amanda interrupted.

The woman dismissed the class of some eight students with an uneventful, almost arrogant wave of her hand. Amanda had made it perfectly clear that she did not enjoy the duties to which she had been assigned, but she had little choice in the matter. In a world like this, there was no purpose or room for any particular fashion or vanity, at least not in the sense to which Amanda was accustomed. However, she did cherish the weekly gatherings of girls and women at her place to discuss said topic: fashion and style. Amanda did not know the first thing about sewing, but she did know a thing or two about fabric, fitting, and other such things useful to the ladies when it came to being and looking fabulous.

The philosophy class had extended well beyond its usual timeframe. Amanda encouraged the students to discussion, but when it pushed the lesson by two hours, sometimes three, she was less than happy about it. Amanda swung by her quarters to slip into something more presentable. She still had a respectable collection of exquisite garment considering the state of things. Some random, dark treggings were sufficient, complemented by a white t-shit and a lengthy cardigan on top. Footwear was all about being practical these days, which is the only reason why anyone would ever witness Amanda in sneakers.

Amanda had yet to eat anything since lunch time, countless of hours earlier. Her stomach ached and screamed all the way over to the ration center closest to Amanda’s residence. When she entered, she thought she went mad just then. The scent of whatever had been cooked or prepared from earlier of the day assaulted all of her senses at once and washed, drowned her in euphoria. Amanda heeded Nicole’s inquiry and made her way over to where she sat. 

“Horace, I’ll have whatever gorgeous here is having, whatever the cost.”
“We all know you can afford it,” said Horace.
“Well, I have to suffer for it once a week with a dozen or more strangers in my home.”
Horace chuckled. Amanda sat down across from Nicole and next to Richter.
“Hello, Rich,” she said, “Yes, darling, late dinner indeed. Michael kept at it once again… that boy is going to be the end of me, I know it.”