He picked out a pair of slacks and then studied his selection of polo shirts from Dillard’s and Foley’s, pondering the same choice he faced just about every day: black or gray.ĭespite his color preferences, he wasn’t macabre, not really. Then he ate breakfast, showered, slipped on his Rolex, surveyed his close-cropped hair for any sign that it was getting too long and kinky, like his father’s, and wandered over to his closet. After returning to bed, he and his wife, Kay, watched Good Morning America (he liked Robin Roberts). One morning in December 2004, he slid his legs out of bed, petted his miniature dachshund, Maggie, and stumbled downstairs to make coffee he preferred it strong and black and poured into a fine china cup. He’d play those fantasies in his head until, at 6:35, he placed them on pause, for later. Maybe he’d be stepping off a private plane, squinting into the distance at a mountain range maybe he’d be strutting down a street in some exotic locale while people smiled deferentially. He imagined a life filled with travel and prestigious pursuits, scenes set to soaring arias or violins. In those quiet moments, he would lie there and fantasize. This was one of the best parts of his day, a time when life seemed full of possibility. On most days, around 6:30, Sandy Jenkins would wake up without an alarm and linger for just a few minutes in silence.
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