“Get out!” he shouts. “And don’t come back.”
I stare at him for a couple of seconds, smooth my hands down my dress, and give him a curt nod. Spinning around, I walk out of his office with my head held high. By the time I make it to my car, I’m trembling so badly it takes me three tries to get the key into the ignition.
I lost my job. Over a painting.
The man nearly had an apoplectic fit over a fucking painting. And an ugly one, at that.
I try to convince myself it’s for the best as I drive home, but I know I’m in trouble. If I don’t find another job, fast, I’m going to lose it all. My apartment. My car. Everything.
As the tears roll down my cheeks, I swipe at them angrily. At least I held onto a few shreds of dignity and didn’t cry in front of the old geezer.
I pull to a stop at a red light and fiddle with the material of my dress. I refuse to believe it’s lost its luck. Tonight was just a hiccup. An anomaly.
It’s still my lucky dress, and the next time I wear it will be proof-positive.
Luck is real, and mine has nowhere to go but up.