not on purpose

O N E

I know what you are thinking. Why the heck am I ripping out this page in the daily newspaper? Well, let me tell you why. Horoscopes are complete utter bullshit. Oh, and please don't look at me like that, all accusing. How do I know, you're asking? Trust me, I get that a lot. But to answer your question, it's pretty simple: People like to believe. Whether it's in that good luck charm, you got from your best friend or the stuffed animal on your pillow that has never let you down. Or, how could I forget, in God. They believe in it because it brings a certain kind of comfort with it. But thinking that the person writing this horoscope actually knows what they are doing is pointless. You won't just cross the street walking into someone who turns out to be the love of your life. You also won't find that soulmate of yours because someone's reaching for the same pack of cereal. And you most likely won't find love believing in some nonsense on paper-white. That can't be true, you're thinking. Well, I beg to differ.

The elderly man behind the counter who just handed me the change awkwardly stares back at me. See, I wasn't lying about this happening regularly.

On my way out, I throw part of the paper into the bin. I am greeted with the early morning Brooklyn air and a slight smell of coffee. But not even that could calm me down. I might be confident in myself and my abilities, but the stream of people rushing to their destination gave me an uncomfortable feeling. The moment I was offered a possible position at Piers, Scott & Associates, the most renounced firm in Midtown Manhattan, has been engraved in my mind. Ever since Middle School, I wanted to be a lawyer. It's the non-negotiability of rules that drew me to it. At the end of the day, I like to think that the law is there for a reason. Not to suppress but to give us a direction in life, to fence our road ahead. I never thought about being a litigator. I don't like bending the rules to my will. You would always face the same challenge: Is what you're saying convincing? And does that make people feel? I feel at home when there is just ink on white, words on paper. In corporate law, nothing is above that. That's what I believe in.

I still had a few hours to kill. So instead of hailing a cab, something I would have usually done around town to get to work, I decided on a short walk. The apartment was only ten minutes away. When I needed to clear my mind, I loved walking in the warming spring sun. If I had the time to do it, that is.

To my surprise, something was calming about the way everyone around me was extremely busy. You got this, I said to myself. I've wanted this job since I graduated at the top of my class at Harvard. And trust me, I wasn't going to mess this up now that I got the chance. I had practised every word I was going to say. I had a plan B for everything that could possibly go wrong and a plan C just in case. I would not give away this opportunity without a fight.

The sweet smell of pastry stuck up my nose. I hadn't realised that by hazard, I had found my way to my favourite bakery. For days, my thoughts had primarily revolved around this interview. It was bad enough that Bill had tried his best to calm me down.

"Babe, you wanted this since, I don't know, ever. You're good. You're the best lawyer I know."

"I am also the only lawyer you know. That's not convincing at all. And, for starters, how could you be so sure?"

"Because I know you," he replied while gently caressing my cheek. "And I know you got this."

The past weeks had been rough for both of us. The firm Bill was working for had to go into administration, dismissing most of its employees. He was on the lookout for a new job and had left right after me for yet another job interview. It was the third this month.

I directed my gaze, facing Uncle John's Bakery. It was a family run business that created the best traditional styled cakes and pastries anyone could ask for. And cake could fix almost everything, right? Stepping into the small shop, I was greeted with the laughter of a middle-aged woman. "My dear, it's lovely to see you. What can I get you? The same as usual?" I smiled. "Thanks, Tina. And can you get me two pieces of that Red Velvet cake of yours, too?" Chuckling, she said, "I know you can never get enough of that.", before turning around to cut two pieces, putting them into a small paper box. Followed by the most dreadful question.

"How's your fiancé doing?"

I looked up from my phone, casting a not-at-all-convincing smile. "We're fine. Bill is trying his best to find a new job," I answered with a little sigh at the end. "But?" Her expression was filled with understanding and sympathy. Tina had this gift of instantly knowing when something was wrong.

"But it's a lot." She gave me a genuine smile that told me that everything was going to be okay. As I was about to reply to her, another customer stepped into the shop, abruptly ending our conversation. I quickly gave her some cash, a generous tip included and mouthed a Thank you before leaving.

With a bag of freshly baked croissants and a box filled with pieces of my favourite cake, I made my way back to the apartment. The streets were busier than usual, and it took me a little longer than I expected. I would barely have enough time to bite into one of these heavenly treats, but it was fine. I hastily crossed Brooklyn's 8th Avenue to turn into one of the smaller roads.

The brownstone houses that were rowed along the street spread their own charm. When we moved here about two years ago, it was all a dream. I grew up in a little town in Massachusetts and had always craved the Big Apple. Finally moving to the city that never sleeps was a wish come true. For years, I had this picture on my wall, showcasing a beige facade, a large Mahogany entrance and window sills painted white. Buying one of these townhouses was even a dream I never envisioned having.

Dodging a few people coming my way, I made it back to the front of our apartment, where I instantly came to a halt.

There, right behind the living room window facing the street, were my soon-to-be husband and his former colleague, Christine, passionately kissing on the back of our sofa. My left hand opened in shock, the bag of pastry falling on the floor and spilling its contents on the flagstones. This was absolutely not happening. Not now and not today. A sickening feeling conquered my stomach, and I felt as if I would soon throw up. An even more worrying thought entered my brain as I stepped back towards the street. Has he been doing this every time he went to an interview?

Seconds later, a shocked female face stared back at me through the window. I could feel my head going to explode as I blankly glanced at the steps that lead up to our front door. I turned on my heel and stepped onto the street as Bill came rushing through the entrance. Too f-ing late, asshole. As in a trance, my fingers dialled the shortcut number. A wave of unbearable pain hit my right side when he finally answered.

"Elle? Is everything alright?"

I sense the cold of the asphalt under me. The yellow of a New York City cab is sprinkled with blood. And that is the last thing I see.