For the Furious Fiction competition the story had to be 500 words or less, begin in a queue and include a map, and also the words: cross, drop, lucky.
The Curse of the Vengeful Ex. By Lauryn Lambert
I tap the concrete with my shoe and count the people in front of me, for maybe the forty-second time.
I stretch my neck and bounce on my toes, rolling my eyes at myself.
There are sixteen people between me and that door, the risk of fainting while waiting is much lower than an ANZAC day service.
I wiggle my toes anyway. I can’t afford to take any risks today.
I jingle the coins in my pocket and resist the urge to count them all over again. There will be enough, I frantically affirm to myself.
Another deep breath required.
Anxiety I didn’t know I was carrying, clings to me like a weighted blanket. Curse my ex for cleaning me out.
No!
Breathe!
The deep breath has triggered my urge to cough, but I can’t cough. Not here, not now. I get by with a small clearing of the throat, but even that is enough to make the lady in front of me close her eyes and make the sign of the cross. I duck my head.
I’ve heard the whispers of chaos breaking out around town. I can’t have this here today, not in my queue!
I run my fingers over the coins and give in to the desire to recount. One dollar and ten cents, three dollars and ten cents.
My count is interrupted by the newly apparent gap in front of me.
Someone has gone through the door! Two, six, eight, ten, I’m lucky number thirteen. Progress!
Back to counting.
Ting!
My coin has dropped!
I look around for where it rolled. Without it I won’t have enough!
Someone behind me has trapped it under their shoe. I murmur my thanks and get back in line.
Eight dollars and twenty five cents. It’s all there, and it’s just enough. No more chances, it’s going back in my pocket. I push the worry about price increases out of my head. I don’t know what I’m going to do if this plan fails!
I have no other money for now, as since the announcement there has been no work. Except for this, I will get by on my stash of provisions until work resumes.
I have no other choice.
Whatever happens I can do this! I remind myself. I am a survivor.
The line shuffles. Seven more now.
I focus on the map on the door. Aisle five is my salvation.
It’s a miracle, but the sanitizing station does not make me cough this time, it knows my need. One person now. Victory is close.
I breathe and breathe and breathe.
I get the nod and walk through calmly.
Aisle five. Check the sign. Yes.
I want to sprint, but I have to dodge other shoppers’ trolleys and seem polite.
I scan the shelves. Heart thudding. Bare, so bare.
And then I see them. Two packets on the bottom shelf. $8.15 each.
I hug one packet of toilet paper to my chest and try not to cry.
(Authors Note: Can you tell we had a surprise lock down this week?)
