“I do not understand superstitious people,” declared Carole as she shuffled paperwork on the desk beside mine.
This topic had emerged unbidden from her mind and I looked up from my keyboard. “What do you mean?
“I am amazed at people who trust in horse shoes or are worried about walking under ladders,” she said. “It makes no sense at all.”
“So you’re not superstitious?”
She gave a quick snort. “Of course not. Those things are ridiculous. Think about it. A broken mirror gets you seven years of bad luck. A black cat walks across your path and you’ve got more bad luck. Why not just change paths when you see it? Huh? How about that?”
“Yeah, I suppose so.” I really wanted to get back to work.
“Well, it’s totally idiotic,” she said. “All of it. Think about those athletes who don’t change their socks while they are winning. Or scared to death for the whole day on Friday the thirteenth. Did you know some people say that sleeping on a table is bad luck. Crazy, huh?”
“Sleeping on a table might cause a sore back, I suppose” I turned my eyes back to my screen. I had work to do.
“What?” she said, leaning across her desk. “I suppose you’re superstitious.”
“No. I don’t pay any attention to it.” I placed my fingers on the keyboard, ready to begin again.
“Me, either. Except salt, of course.”
“Salt?” She had my attention now. “What about salt?” I said.
“You know. When you spill salt, you have to throw it over your shoulder. You know.”
Well, I didn’t know. But I felt so much better knowing that she wasn’t superstitious.
