I Don’t Believe

Nobody asked me about the Scooby adhesive bandage on my fingertip today.

As I was throwing my bag over my shoulder this morning, somehow – I’m not sure how, exactly – the bag’s strap caught on my right ring finger and tore about a quarter of the fingernail off. I rushed into the bathroom, where Phillip was brushing his teeth, grabbed the Swiss Army Knife we have in there, and used the scissors to cut off the protruding edges of what was left of the fingernail – so I wouldn’t rip it anymore. Then I rushed out the door.

I was about halfway down the apartment stairs when I saw that my finger was bleeding. I thought about where I could find a bandage at work – or somewhere on my way to work. Then I turned around and went back up.

I went back into our apartment, where I was greeted by a surprised Phillip. I explained the situation. I grabbed the box of assorted bandages from the bathroom cabinet and retrieved a bandage that looked about the right size and wrapped it around my fingertip. The bandage had a picture of Scooby on it.

I’m not sure why we had a Scooby adhesive bandage.

I rushed out the apartment again. I reminded myself that I don’t believe in the superstition about Friday the Thirteenth.

I walked briskly down the street toward the bus stop. I refused to run. I remembered that when Twice Sold Tales was at the corner of Broadway and John, and a bus stop was in front of it, there was a sign in the window that said: “There’s always another bus.”

I got to the bus stop and all the familiar commuters were there. The bus must have been running as late as I was. I still got to work in time for some breakfast, however.

Nope, I don’t believe in Friday the Thirteenth.

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