I’m not that much of a superstitious person, but I always believe that, in some ways, the universe pranks you. It could range from papercuts to never winning anything to having a food allergy. The universe’s prank on me was to make every Tuesday a hell hole.  

Tuesdays were always unpleasant for me. Every time something bad happened, it was on a Tuesday. My father passing away was one extreme example. I couldn’t control Tuesdays’ arrivals. I braced for anything terrible, being cautious whenever and wherever.

This Tuesday was no different. Los Angeles was having a rare thunderstorm, leading to bad driving. I attempted to drive in the safe middle lane, but some asshole (I retract that, I don’t know if they were an asshole, they’re nice people who don’t know how to drive, it was the heat of the moment) swerved in front before I could merge, allowing me to slam straight into a downed palm tree.

My insult halted with the realization that I would be late for work. The damage wasn’t severe, so I drove to Fickle Headquarters.

Walking inside with squishing shoes, I ignored the stares and chuckles of coworkers. The elevator was, of course, broken, so I had to climb three flights of stairs, slipping twice. I went to my cubicle and turned on the laptop, which took ten minutes to load. I decided to kill some time in the break room to get coffee. That was a bad call since the boss was there too.

Most employees would like an easy-going boss, but I have the opposite problem. My boss tends to pamper us with mandatory vacations, massage chairs, mandatory office parties, all the stuff an employee would take advantage of. I dreaded all of them. This fact only makes me the outcast of the office, and being a workaholic, I prefer to keep it that way. My boss is the type of person who thinks they know workaholics are bad for businesses, so whenever he gets a chance, he’s sure to force me to relax.

I went behind his back, grabbed a black coffee and two sweetener packets. I was turning around, but my shoulder felt a strong hand, making my coffee fall to the ground.

“Tamara, there you are!” My boss bellowed.

“Um… yes, sir?”

“I’ve got a report for you.”

“What is it?”

“Another activist wants an interview.”

“What’s this activist’s concern?”

“Think of the Qanon in liberal mode.”

“Oh, I see.”

“They don’t seem dangerous, but we insisted that you can do it in a public space.”

“Where is it?”

“That ice cream place right around the corner.”

“You mean Kimmy’s? Sure.”

“Great! You’ll meet them in one hour so get ready. Also, you could use an umbrella.”

I clenched my fist to the mug, cursing myself for leaving my umbrella in the car.

“Sure, thanks.”

I nodded to signify the end of the meeting, and he understood. I saw him exit the other way and turned on my heel to slip and kiss the floor with my nose.

Image by Susan Cipriano from Pixabay