(This short story, written December 11th, is based on nonfictional events and dedicated to a fellow named Scott.)
The gray lasted from the dawn to dusk, the fog drenching the spirits of the city, stretching the lines at the cafes and bakeries. And on a mundane Tuesday, the people worked, the children learned, the yuppies overpaid, the cheerleaders underate, and the Bobs of the city took their cigar breaks at precisely 10:10am. It was this very day when she was deeply, soulfully inspired to finally organize a basket of laundry ready for the machines downstairs, the machines which only moved when contacted with precisely 24 quarters. It was early afternoon when a showered, energetic, impassioned she suddenly found herself driven to a concrete wall manifesting itself in... five measly quarters. Twas not the day for laundry. Maybe it wasn't the day for doing anything. The universe was speaking, and with no other voices in her head on this quiet Tuesday afternoon, she had no choice but to listen.
She zipped her boots over her jeans and contemplated her journey of the day. Her heart twittered at the promise of a brisk walk, while her ankles-- normally the unqualified warriors of the forty-hour week-- shuddered silently. "I promise you nice things," she whispered to herself as encouragement, and sure enough, as she re-entered the world, she successfully walked past her parked sedan, onward to a journey on-foot. Little did she know that only disappointment would befall her in the next hour and a half, with the discovery of a closed party store and a distinct lack of Christmas-themed costumes in any other neighborhood store. Maybe it was another sign, most likely from the Jewish side of her ancestors.
Upon returning to her car, she slumped in the seat, the air sliding out of her lungs. She stared ahead at the gray of the pavement meeting the unchanged sky. It was literally an uphill battle to find purpose to this particular Tuesday. She wouldn't let herself give up. Perhaps it was as little as a freshly-baked croissant, or perhaps her long-lost best friend would be awaiting her at the peak of the highway. Maybe there was a song that needed to be heard on the radio, an inspiring message to be delivered personally to her. Or perhaps the shower, the make-up, the fresh pair of socks... perhaps none of it was worth this Tuesday. Three cups of coffee pumped her blood at an abnormal rate. The engine turned, smoothed, and led her up the hill.
Somehow, the Divine forces delivered she to the (second-)nearest party store she knew, and she stood on minute #10, her eyes tasting the pictorial variations on a traditional Santa Claus costume. Her darkly-lined hazel eyes narrowed, piercing each image scrupulously, using her logic and imagination to eliminate some of the choices. Upon choosing a favorite, it was then the price that caused pause. The deep, philosophical debate of tradition and the question "what exactly IS Santa Claus" kept her beautiful mind occupied for far too long as the early evening grew dimmer. At last, her decision was merely to wait, accepting a minor success in finding options. Temporarily, she denied herself the stress of counting the little time before the arrival of Saturday night, and marched to a victory dinner of beef stew and sourdough. At last, the day could be considered a good day off.
