Not only did her car have a flat tire, but her day decided to deliver a little bonus feature: a near-death experience courtesy of her own porch. One misstep, one wobble, and suddenly Nettie was performing a less-than-graceful Swan Lake audition across concrete.
Her palms hit first. Skin scraped raw. Then her knees. A sharp sting jolted up her legs. By the time she rolled over and groaned, she realized her pride had been crushed more brutally than her body.
And there, staring her in the face like some cosmic joke, was the culprit.
A fruit basket.
A soaked, half-drowned, definitely-gifted-by-a-sadist fruit basket.
Someone left afruit basketon her front porch.
In the rain.
Sopping wet.
Rain drizzled in miserable little needles against her already throbbing skin. The wicker was warped, the ribbon sagged in defeat, and the fruit inside?
Soggy casualties.
It was sitting in two inches of rainwater from where the top had been left open, when they tied a loose bow on it. The cellophane was covered in droplets on the inside and outside. She poked at the soggy mess, and the cellophane squelched like it was laughing at her.
And the card?
Utter. Pulp.
It was like back in history class when they were making papyrus with paper pulp. You could see evidence of grayish stains from the ink of the newspaper, but reading it was anything short of a joke… oh, and she completely smashed one side of the basket with her fall. The side where the bananas were, right beside the apples floating in the rainwater, which sent banana-spoo all over the rest of the contents of the basket.
So, to summarize: bloody hands, bruised shins, ego annihilated, drenched from head to toe, and the proud new owner of fruitsoup. Plus, she still had to change her tire and put on the spare.
Perfect.
Just perfect.
Oh yes, the ‘F’ words were well deserved this morning.
“Fudge!”
“Fracking Fruit!”
Oh, the “F” words were plentiful, sharp, and enunciated firmly. And when she managed to wedge the jack in the wrong spot and crease her fender? That was another symphony of “F”words that flowed from her mouth like a waterfall. Her heart nearly stopped when the jack folded, dropping the car with a metallic crash that rattled her molars and sent her anxiety spinning.
By the time the spare was on, an hour had passed, her hair was plastered to her head, and she was soaked through in every possible way a human could be soaked. She shoved the ruined tire into her trunk and stood there, arms limp at her sides, praying she wouldn’t simply collapse on the pavement and give up entirely.
At least work would be better.
Right?
Wrong.
The “F” words followed her into daycare like loyal little minions.
One child had lice.
Another had diarrhea.
And one little cherub arrived hacking, pale, and feverish—because apparently “the flu” wasn’t enough to deter some parents from dropping off their kiddos. Those parents, naturally, ghosted all calls until three hours later, when they finally breezed in with indignation written across their smug faces.
“He wasfinethis morning!” they insisted.
