Stroke of Luck (girlxgirl)

Part 1

Sammy Coulter was one of those people who lived in an organised chaos, everything usually had their place, they just weren't in the usual places. Hoodies lived on the back of her desk chair, mugs rarely made it from her desk to the kitchen before their next use, and none of her pairs of shoes made it from the floor to her wardrobe.

Music blared from a radio on the nightstand, as she flitted about her small bedroom, spraying perfume on her neck before picking up her red lip gloss and applying a generous amount. Dropping to the floor on her hands and knees, her long brown hair draped across her rug as she peered underneath her bed, her fingers groping for the straps of her black heels. She clasped the straps and stood up, blowing on each heel so that the dust fell away.

She sat down on her bed, her knees inches from the desk that just barely fit in her double room. She smoothed out the billowing sage fabric of her dress and did up the straps of her heels. She combed her fingers through her long straight hair, the back always slightly knotted. Anything she couldn't see in the mirror, she didn't worry about.

She frowned as she looked at her reflection. Her green dress with its pink and purple abstract patterns, draped nicely, but not perfectly. She rotated her arms back and forth, looking for definition that wasn't there. She sighed, her forehead crinkling.

She skirted between her bed and desk and slid open the bathroom door. It had pastel pink tiles, an old pull cord toilet and a small shower that never got hotter than lukewarm. Her rings jangled against the ceramic sink as she placed her hands on the cool surface, her forehead leaning on her mirrored cabinet. She took a deep breath, removing one hand from the sink to rub at her temple, the headache from the afternoon had persisted and was only getting worse.

The pile of reports sitting on her bed were taunting her. She opened the cabinet and pulled out a bottle of paracetamol. A singular pill rattling as she shook it. She made a mental note to add more to the shopping list as she leant down to the faucet to get a drink.

She cast one last look at the pile of paperwork on her bed, picked up her keys and purse and headed out the door. She always had to allow a few extra minutes when leaving the house in case the door threatened to be temperamental. Any sign of rain and it usually ate up the moisture, forcing Sammy to wrestle with it to get it out of its frame. To her relief she unbolted both locks and shimmied the door open with ease.

The evening air had a crisp bite, the weather beginning to shift to cooler temperatures. She walked down the staircase, squinting carefully in the dark to make sure she didn't trip. Her landlord had failed to fix the light on the stairs after many stumbles and grazed shins. He no longer answered her calls and she didn't have the energy to fight with him. She pivoted around the stairs, the red paint of her 1970s Toyota corolla gleaming in the setting sun. She slid her key into the lock and sat down in the driver's seat, her headache still persisting despite the pain relief.

The traffic had gotten heavier as she got closer to the bar, everyone heading out for Friday night activities. Her fingers tapped nervously on the steering wheel as she looked at the clock on her dashboard. She wasn't late, not too early either. She blinked rapidly as she looked out her windscreen, brake lights swimming chaotically across the traffic. She fiddled with the nobs on her radio, tuning past several stations before she decided to just turn it back off again.

Remarkably she found a parking spot a few streets back from the bar, though once she had safely parallel parked, she felt a feeling of dread overcome her. She opened the car visor and slid back the mirror to look at her appearance. Rotating her face from right to left, a faint layer of mascara emphasising her hazel eyes. She looked irritably at a few rogue pimples on her chin and sighed. She hoped she looked pretty.