A Missing Red Tie
It was one of those mornings when nothing seemed to go according to plan. The rain hadn’t stopped since sunrise, and I was lounging at home in my comfiest “I-didn’t-plan-to-go-out” outfit shiny wet-look leggings and a white top that had seen one too many laundry cycles.
Just as I was about to make coffee, my phone started buzzing like it had something urgent to confess. I glanced at the screen. Donald. The Donald. He never called unless something dramatic was happening last time it was about a sandwich crisis.
“Hey, Donald,” I answered, trying to sound casual.
“I can’t find my red tie,” he declared in a tone that could have easily been mistaken for an international emergency. “You know, the tie. The one that makes me look like I’m ready to negotiate world peace or at least a dinner reservation.”
I blinked. “Donald, I promise it’s not here. The only red thing around me is a bag of chips.”
He sighed dramatically, as if the world’s fate hung on that single piece of neckwear. “If it’s not there, then it’s gone forever.” Click.
I stood there for a moment, phone in hand, trying not to laugh. Of course, Donald and his tie a love story for the ages.
After the call, I stretched my arms wide, trying to shake off the morning chaos. The leggings made a faint squeak, like they were laughing too. “Well,” I said to no one in particular, “at least I’m dressed for a fashion emergency.”
And that was how my day started with a missing tie, an over-dramatic phone call, and the realization that some people treat accessories the way others treat national treasures.
As for Donald’s tie? He found it two hours later. It was hanging on his doorknob the whole time.
