Our boss leaves early, so of course none of us are doing work. We are singing songs we don’t know the words to, dancing because we need the body heat in this cold, cold office. I’m obscuring articles in new magazines with my scissors, stealing photo illustrations and gluing them into the little windows on envelopes. I steal a sheet of paper from the printer, too, and write:
If you’re reading this, only Fate and your own actions have decreed it so. If there’s something you’ve been wanted to do but haven’t because you’re afraid or unsure, this is the day to do it -- Fate is with you today!
We fold it into an airplane and attach a green paperclip, as much for flair as aerodynamics. The plane is bent and uneven, and along the hallway it does not soar gracefully, majestically, but dives. Repeatedly.
Undaunted, we open the window as wide as it will go -- just wide enough to fit a thin arm out -- and release.
This time, the plane does not dive. It funnels down into the intersection in slow, wide circles, sometimes drifting out of view but always returning. As it lands, the cars grasp at it with their wheels, but can only blow it around the intersection like waves tossing a boat.
The light changes, and a man steps out to cross. We watch with tight fists and held breath as he approaches the message.
He bends to pick it up, and we scream.
The Stranger reads the message once, twice, and then falls still on the street corner, gawking and searching the sky as if the Universe might be waving at him from ten stories up.