On her thirtieth
It was a white Christmas, and the last of the suns rays illuminated cars, tops of cars, tops of awnings, bicycles, as Sara sat on the steps of the cathedral with a box of her belongings. She toyed with the idea of checking the doors, but if they were locked she would have to go home – something she wasn’t quite ready for. No, it wasn’t quite time to go home yet. Instead, she zipped up her fleece and reorganized the stapler and bonsai plant for the fifth time. Fifth? Maybe it was sixth. She had lost count. What a fucked up day it
had become. Honestly, who the fuck goes around firing people on Christmas? Wasn’t there some kind of rule against that? She kept waiting the cameras to come out, praying for some great reveal, but it was Christmas; not April fools. So, cold inside and out, she sat alone on the steps of an empty church. On Christmas. The very thought was chilling, and suddenly the cold was too much for her. Were the doors open? She hoped they were. She still had a few good hours of self pity left, and the cold cliché of seeking solace in a church was too great for her to refuse. She shook the snow off of her hood, then off of her folded legs, then stood. With box in hand, she crossed her fingers, took a breath of anticipation, and pushed the great doors, hard. They didn’t budge. She stood there for a minute, then pushed again. The old wood gave way, and both she and box swung inwards with them. Thank god for small mercies.