February Second
I always knew that February second would be the day of my death. Don’t ask me how; I’ve just known. I didn’t hear it from a soothsayer, or something like that. But I’ve known. Since first grade, I’ve known. So that icy cold February day, the first of the month, I was prepared and expectant. I’d been that way for years, knowing that sometime, it’d be my time. I didn’t know which year, obviously, but it’d been twenty since I’d learned. I was in my prime, but I was sure that didn’t matter. I didn’t bother to watch out for the slick patches of ice, but merely walked along normally, holding my bag of groceries in their brown paper sack like I was in some old movie, walking down the sidewalk while the traffic buzzed past.
I hummed a tune under my breath, my hiking boots gripping the slick ground tightly. Why wasn’t I worried? Afraid? I don’t know. It seemed inevitable, and waiting, every year, for that one moment just seemed… silly. So I went along, not wanting to fall, to trip, but given to the idea.
When I reached my apartment, though, unscathed, I shrugged to myself. I was a day early anyway. I balanced the grocery bag on my hip, digging for my house key, letting myself into the warmth. I greeted the cats, set the bag down in the kitchen, and took off my coat, returning to the entryway to hang it on the peg by the door. Then, humming again, I unpacked the groceries, making some popcorn, and sitting to watch television.