IMPOSSIBLE’S DOORSTEP
Before I’m fully aware of my physical self—before I understand who or what or where I am—I reach out into the darkness. It’s a primal movement of comfort, not desperate or worried, just reflexive.
Connection is what we’re built for, and while this assertion may sound spiritual at its core, it doesn’t have to be. Whether a patch of mold crawling over tile or a pack of hairless apes starting a fire, biological organisms thrive by working together. It’s no wonder, then, that as a bodiless, floating thing, my first instinct is to hunt for someone else.
My hand finds nothing but empty sheets. The warmth I’m expecting is mysteriously absent, and this broken pattern does more to jerk me back into focus than any horrible, buzzing alarm clock ever could. Something is wrong. The rhythm of my life has shifted.
I reach a little deeper into the abyss, driven to hunt the cool, clean ocean of this vacant space. “Annie?” I sigh, stretching my body across the bed.
She’s not there. My eyes pop open.
Chirp!
I’m greeted by the sound of my phone alarm, a single, piercing digital beep. It’s short and efficient, customized so that I won’t wake my girlfriend with a full round of the traditional rattling xylophone, but it appears today this effort is for naught.
My eyes scan our dimly lit bedroom. Despite Annie’s absence, everything else is as it should be. A faint glow illuminates the blinds to my left, the brand-new day slowly churning itself into existence. Our shelves are organized, the wood floors are freshly mopped, and today’s workout fit sits waiting for me on a nearby hanger.
My jaw hurts from a long night of grinding.
“Annie?” I call out, a little louder this time as I find my voice.
My mind leaps back through time, struggling to remember any particular morning that she woke before I did. I’m the one who gets up before dawn and walks across the park, then jogs home. I’m the one who makes our coffee. I’m the one—
A faint shuffle in the living room quells my panic, and moments later a familiar figure steps into the bedroom doorway. My whole world nudges back into alignment. Annie is always a hell of a sight, but this morning her short and messy blond hair feels especially playful, and the constellations of freckles that cover her face seem even more pronounced. She leans against the doorframe and cocks her head to the side, just gazing for a moment. It’s the perfect amount of time to let me know that she’s thinking something and choosing not to speak it, but her mischievous smile is a strong hint that whatever it is would make me blush.
“Good morning,” Annie finally coos.
“What the fuck is happening? You’re up before I am?” I joke. “And you’re dressed?”
“Yes ma’am,” Annie confirms. She hesitates, then laughs, momentarily shifting gears. “I can’t believe you sleep like that, Vera.”
I glance down at my rigid pose. While one arm has extended into the empty space where Annie usually rests, the other is tight against my side. I’m lying perfectly straight and flat on my back like a corpse in a coffin, my feet pointed at the ceiling.
I say nothing, consciously relaxing the tightness of my body.
Annie is clad in her workout gear, which consists of a ratty old Cocteau Twins tee with the sleeves cut off and light blue short-shorts that look like they belong on a ’70s track star. It’s chaotic and fun, like her, and it shows off the sway of her body as she saunters toward me.
“Need some help loosening up?” Annie asks. “There’s all kinds of things we could do before your morning walk.”
As she reaches the corner of the bed she drops to her hands and knees, exaggerating the movement of her hips. She crawls across the blankets. Unfortunately, as great as Annie looks in this position, my eyes have already moved slightly lower.
“Shoes!” I snap, pointing at the chunky white sneakers on her feet. They’re caked in dried mud, soles worn down and laces fraying.
Annie lies flat, stretching out so that her feet stay hanging off the edge of the bed. It’s just enough for her lips to meet mine, the two of us holding for a long, warm kiss. Despite the slightly awkward position, we take a moment to breathe each other in, then finally release.
“Later,” I say.
Annie nods. “This is your day,” she reminds me. “Whatever you want.”
It is my day, and as much as I appreciate the gift of Annie doing her best type-A impression in solidarity, what I’d really love is for everything to stay the same. My peace is in the pattern.
“I wanna go for my walk,” I inform her.
“Well, I’m ready,” she proudly announces, standing up again.
I follow her lead, climbing from the tangled blankets. I change into my sleek, charcoal gray workout gear and slip on the running shoes I’d laid out side by side the night before. My jet-black hair is just long enough to pull back in a tight ponytail, clean and manageable. This takes four attempts to get perfect, but the finished product has absolutely no strays.
None.
Annie retreats to the kitchen as I make the bed, taking my time to perfectly crease every edge and tuck in the sheets. I also spend a moment with some water and a paper towel, scrubbing down two faint smudges on our floor where Annie’s filthy running shoes briefly trod.
“I only schedule half an hour for this,” I remind her as we step out onto our front stoop. “We can’t take long.”
“I know, Vera,” Annie patiently confirms, thankfully more amused than annoyed by my incessant programming. At this point in our relationship, that’s a goddamn miracle.
The morning is brisk, but the slowly rising sun already feels pleasant and warm against my skin as we set out on our trek. We head down our front steps then take a sharp turn on the sidewalk, tightly packed apartments and town houses finally giving way to wide open space as our block reaches the edge of the park.
Facing north, a glorious view of the Chicago skyline opens up before us, distant buildings looming over our quaint neighborhood square. This adorable parcel of green grass isn’t quite as impressive as the grand 1,200 acres of Lincoln Park across town, but it gets the job done.
Annie goes to cross the street when a sudden movement from the corner of my eye prompts this morning’s second instinctual reaction. Again, I reach out for Annie, only this time I manage to grab her collar and yank her back as a blue sedan comes flying around the corner with a loud screech, music blaring.
The vehicle rumbles into a nearby gravel parking lot and comes to a grinding halt across two spaces.
Anger surges within me. For the briefest moment, I consider yelling out or storming over there, but I hold myself back. Somehow, I find the balance to remember the stakes of the day. I need to stay focused and pick my battles.
One action I do take, however, is to pull Annie a little closer. I slip my arm around her waist as we make our second crossing attempt, much safer this time.
Glancing over my shoulder, I catch sight of the driver opening his car door. The man hops out, head down and long, ratty hair hanging like a mop. An unkempt beard covers his face. Above him, a large green sign reads: POKER ROOM.
“Asshole,” I mumble under my breath, watching as the man hustles inside.
“What?” Annie asks, confused.
It’s then that I realize she’s already moved on. Instead of looking behind us, Annie’s focus is straight ahead. She’s charting our journey down a winding cement path, enjoying the lush, emerald green trees that line our morning walk.
“Nothing,” I reply, shaking my head.
“You thinking about today?”
“I wasn’t, but now I am.” I laugh.
“And you’re nervous?”
I nod. “Always.”
“Vera, you should be excited. You’ve been working on this book for so long.”
“I’m not nervous about the book,” I clarify.
Annie considers this, momentarily silent. A dog walker strolls past us. A delivery truck beeps in the distance. The city is waking up.
“You know, you can always wait,” Annie finally says. She’s extending an olive branch, being the merciful, patient, loving partner that anyone would kill to hold so close at a moment like this, and all those qualities are exactly why I can’t take her up on her offer. She deserves better.
I shake my head. “I’m doing it today.”
Annie can’t help the way my response makes her lips curl up at the corners. The grin is such a genuine display of joy that she immediately glances down, covering it up. She nuzzles her body even deeper into mine, her head pushing hard against my shoulder.
The sun has finally made its grand entrance, sitting low on the horizon and painting the sky with a streak of brilliant pink across what’s left of the night. We’ve reached a little glen at the far end of the park, a place where our path opens onto a small courtyard with some benches and a modest centerpiece fountain trickling away. This is just about where my morning walk transitions into a run.
“Look!” Annie shouts, suddenly breaking away from me and crouching down.
She returns with a grimy copper penny between her fingers, holding it up for me to see.
“Heads,” she announces. “It’s your lucky day.”
“I feel so much better about coming out to Mom now,” I state dryly.
“What could go wrong?”
When I catch sight of the penny’s date, however, the faintest sparkle of childlike excitement ignites within me.
“My birthday year,” I say, nodding at the coin.
“What are the chances?” Annie chirps, her eyes widening a bit.
I laugh, moving to press onward until I notice the expression on her face. “Oh, you actually want to know.”
I can see now what Annie’s doing, but I don’t deny her efforts. This is my day, after all, and if my girlfriend wants to pretend she’s interested in my probabilistic ramblings for the next twenty-four hours, then who am I to stop her?
“Well, the very first United States pennies were minted in 1793,” I explain. “Which was … two hundred and thirty-three years ago.”
“Then the odds of you finding this coin are one in two hundred and thirty-three,” Annie interjects, jumping ahead.
“Not really, no,” I counter, unable to help myself. “Most people think like that when they’re calculating odds, but we don’t exist in a vacuum. It’s not just about my birth year, because that’s only one variable. You have to factor in us going for a walk between the specific times that someone dropped this penny and the potential future when you pick it up. Also, some years they produced more pennies than others. The fact that we’re near a fountain probably bumps up the odds significantly, since people toss coins in, but you also have to consider the fact that older pennies are taken out of circulation. On the other hand, the popularity of financial apps and payment services has led to a steep decline in physical currency, which means even less coinage, which means a lower probability of finding small change, and I’m sure the fact that we’re in a metropolitan, tech-savvy area only amplifies that effect.”
I could go on, but I fumble when I notice the checked-out look on Annie’s face. She’s trying her best, forcing a smile and nodding along out of kindness and encouragement, but I’m smart enough to see through it.
“Let’s just call it one out of two hundred and thirty-three,” I offer, my love just enough to numb the discomfort of this approximation. I take the penny between my thumb and pointer finger, then draw it in for a better look.
Annie accepts. “I’m just impressed you knew the first pennies were minted in seventeen-ninety-whatever.”
“Ninety-three.”
“Yeah, that.”
“I used to collect coins when I was little,” I explain. “It kinda got me into numbers and probability. There was this book that told you which ones were rare and why. I had a whole collection.”
“That’s very cute,” Annie says. “Are you about to tell me we have a million-dollar quarter tucked away in our closet?”
I shake my head. “Mom made me spend them. Said it was a waste of time holding on to spare change instead of thinking about real money.”
“How old were you?”
“Five.”
Annie is silent.
“I had these little gold star stickers,” I continue with a laugh. “I’d put them on all the coins in my collection. That way, I’d know which ones were for keeping and which ones were for spending.”
My girlfriend’s expression falters. Her gaze is no longer one of mind-wandering absence, but dialed-in intensity. “Are you fucking with me?” she asks.
“I don’t … think so?”
Annie grabs the coin from my hand and turns it around, shoving it back in my face so I can see what’s on the tails side.
It takes a moment to understand what I’m looking at, but when my eyes finally finish negotiating with my brain I feel an odd sense of disappointment wash over me. On the back of this penny are the barely visible remnants of what appears to be a sticker, the shape eroding over time but leaving a faint white residue. It’s been worn down to just three points now, but it certainly would appear that long, long ago, a full gold star was here.
My face scrunches up without my permission, brow furrowing and jaw tightening.
I’m vaguely aware that my reaction is unusual, and this suspicion is confirmed by Annie’s rapidly souring expression. She clearly expected me to burst with excitement, like I’d just witnessed the prestige of some decades-long magic trick.
That’s not what happens, though. Annie understands that a coin returning after all these years would be rare, but I doubt she has a grasp on just how rare that would be. I can’t bring myself to use the word impossible, because technically speaking it’s not correct (and technicality is my specialty), but the scenario she’s laid out is certainly standing on impossible’s doorstep. These odds are something to be measured in orders of magnitude, not ordinary numbers.
Suffice to say, where others might see a miracle, I see yet another moment when I’m forced to be the asshole who rains on everyone’s parade.
“That’s not mine,” I tell her flatly.
“Are you kidding me?” Annie shouts, throwing her hands up. “A gold star!”
“I’m sure other people have put stickers on pennies.”
“This is your exact sticker,” she cries, opening my hand and shoving in the coin, then manually closing my fingers around it.
I shake my head. “It’s almost unquantifiable how unlikely that is,” I inform her. “You don’t understand.”
She just stares at me, pouting.
“This is literally my job,” I remind her.
Annie finally breaks. “You are so annoying,” she says, rolling her eyes. She leans in and kisses me, quickly untying all the tension I’ve been cultivating. “You’re lucky we’re celebrating your book today.”
“Are you gonna make me keep this stupid penny?” I ask.
“Up to you,” she says, kicking back into gear and continuing past the fountain. “Let’s go.”
“That’s my line,” I counter. “I don’t know how I feel about you being this on the ball.”
“Just wait until tomorrow!” Annie calls back. “I’ll sleep until noon and have cold pizza for lunch!”
As Annie continues ahead I hesitate, staring down at the coin in my hand. Taking in this little round piece of copper, I picture its hypothetical journey over the years, imagining it riding in other pockets and dancing through countertop change jars just to return to its rightful owner by some incredible, surreal coincidence.
I suppose there is a little magic in that idea, but wonder is hardly the emotion creeping through me. Instead, I can’t help the unexpected sense of dread that’s slowly twisting my stomach into knots.
Annie is getting farther ahead by the second, so without another moment’s hesitation I toss my lucky penny into the fountain.
I don’t make a wish.
* * *
Gazing into this mirror, most folks would see a twenty-seven-year-old woman in a slick, well-tailored blazer with a stark white button-up underneath, the fabric neat and pressed and perfect in a way that’s so subtle it barely registers. They’d see a professional.
The secret is simple enough, just taking that little bit of extra time to steam and iron my clothes even if they don’t appear to need it—especially if they don’t appear to need it—because the details matter.
My dark hair is cut sharp at the shoulders, so precise it makes my typically rounded face seem slightly more angular. I like this because it makes me look, not better in a broad sense, but neater.
Anyone who burst into this restroom would find a woman who has something figured out, defying her youth and becoming a force of nature, or maybe some elemental force of success, years before she’ll reach her thirties.
Statistically, I’m way ahead of the curve, and I should give myself a little praise for that, but instead my mind is unable to tear away from a runaway tuft of hair at the top of my head.
What they see is a badass self-starter who’s already made a mark and will only rocket higher from here; what I see is an awkward cowlick.
I turn on the faucet and get my hand a little wet, then reach up and press down this renegade tassel jutting playfully from the edge of my razorlike center part. I push gently at first, then harder when this doesn’t do the trick.
A bit more water seems to help, but by the time I’m satisfied with my hair I glance down to find that my perfect white shirt now features an awkward splash across the front.
“Fuck,” I snap, my hazel eyes going wide.
I glance around to discover there are no paper towels left in this tiny restroom, so I’m forced instead to hurry over to a hand dryer. I slam the shiny button with my palm, producing a loud metallic clang followed by the roar of hot air rolling across my chest.
I pull out my phone and note the time. We’re still on track to order food by noon, but not by much.
Once my shirt is sufficiently dried, I turn back to the mirror and start the whole process again, checking my hair but also my makeup. I admire my shirt’s crispness for a second time, as well as the smooth, fashionable fit of my skirt. The starkness of my outfit looks good against the dark green floral wallpaper behind me.
I intentionally loosen my jaw, which I’ve been clenching so tightly that I actually notice a faint ache in one of my back teeth.
Whether it’s your fit for a book launch party, or a penny traveling around the country for two decades just to end up at your feet, every little thing matters. It’s a cosmically grand truth to consider, but the longer I let it marinate, the more terrifying it gets.
I turn and leave the restroom with my shoulders back and my expression playful. From around the corner I can hear my friends chatting excitedly, their voices cascading over one another in the joyful din of this hip Chicago diner.
“Well, where the fuck is she?” someone calls out, teasing and enthusiastic despite the biting words.
I exit the hallway and throw my arms open in an exaggerated gesture to mark my return, my sudden appearance prompting a cheer from the table of my dearest friends.
“There she is!” comes another eager voice, that of my buddy Kevin who’s seated at the far end.
I can see now that our waitress is hovering nearby, a notepad gripped in her hand as she dutifully anticipates further instruction. She’s already an absolute saint for dealing with a party this large, and I certainly don’t want to cause her any more trouble.
“I’m ready, I’m ready,” I announce, signaling the woman to start. “Just get to me last.”
I sit down in an open chair next to the one member of our brunch who is noticeably older than the rest, a tall, poised woman who bears a striking resemblance to myself.
Copyright © 2025 by Chuck Tingle
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