The Times They Are A-Shatterin’

Here’s how it went.

It was this past Monday, on their seventh anniversary—at seven pm.
At least that’s the time they approximated for the accident to have occurred when they filled out the papers in the emergency room.

He sat with a towel on his head, blood all over his shirt, running down the list of synchronistic sevens. And you know what?—it was just about seven minutes before the accident that we were joking about the possibility of us now being susceptible to the infamous Seven Year Itch.
And now we’re facing seven years bad luck, she replied, smiling.

The cat had zoomed out of the closet (knowing it wasn’t supposed to be in there)—wildly flinging open the closet door, the one with the mirror on it.
Our hero was sitting in the chair, bent over tying his shoelace—and boy did that door make contact with his head. Smashing glass cascading as if in slow-motion, with a few shards landing on and cutting his scalp.

The nurse, Sophia, listened to their extrapolations of seven-this and seven-that while she cleaned up his scalp. No stitches necessary.
You’ll be fine, she said. And here’s one, she added—there is a theory that every seven years we are reborn, a whole new set of cells. It’s mostly old Roman lore, but there is some science mixed in. I’m sure you guys can work it into your conspiracy of sevens while you heal.

They had shut the bedroom door when they rushed out to the hospital and now had the job of picking up the shattered mess. The cat, Kugel, sat in the doorway, fascinated by all this weird activity.

Timothy—he’s the one with the bandaged head—tends towards superstition. The idea of seven years bad luck really bothered him. Lisa, his wife of seven years, less superstitious but still a bit apprehensive, joined him online to try to find ways to break the possible curse.

On Wednesday night, by the light of the moon, they took some of the mirror shards and buried them in Central Park.
On Thursday, following some arcane instructions that proposed rubbing the mirror fragments against a tombstone, they wandered over to Trinity Church and, when nobody was looking, rubbed them on Alexander Hamilton’s monument.

Nothing bad was happening. It was Friday. They threw some salt over their shoulders. Kugel sat staring at its own reflection in the new mirror on the door. No plot development here.

Saturday. Still nothing bad. They had a picnic in the park then walked over to the zoo and watched the seals frolicking. They got slices at Joe’s Pizza and sat on a bench enjoying them. At the Film Forum they saw a movie about luck called “Match Point”. And then home. A perfect day.
Time being a most powerful cure, slowly their fears of any seven years bad luck had faded. They made mad love.

And on the seventh day they slept in late.

© AleXander Hirka 2020. All Rights Reserved.

Read RemingtonWrite’s version here:

In August 2020, I set myself the challenge of creating a daily digital collage based on an image and a concept. The image was that of the antique Omega watch that belonged to my Mom and the concept was Time.
In September 2020, the Anomalous Duo is challenging themselves to write a short piece of fiction for each collage — the Our Hours project.

Writer, visual artist, philosopher, autodidact, curmudgeon. More than half of what i do is make believe. https://alexanderhirka.nyc

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