Fate is just coincidence mixed with emotion.

I wrote this for an assignment in Sebeil. Don't worry its not done at all, just starting to put it together.

Fate, that loaded die in the game of chance called life.
6 o’clock passes and for the first time in a long time his alarm doesn’t call out to wake him. Overnight an aging tree dropped a dying branch on the power lines and now the alarm glumly feels the time tick by, but cannot muster the strength to call out. Sunlight streams through the blinds and illuminates specks of dust falling like sifted powdered sugar. Hands reach out at the end of stretching arms as mind awakens and body reanimates, feet push back warm covers, eyes blink in the sunlight. Sunlight means late, late means get out of bed. Late, 16 minutes and 47 seconds
Shower water is frigid, it takes a few minutes of tentative steps in and out to muster the bravado and plunge in. Cold showers are for Eskimos not apartment owners he thinks. Out of the shower there are no clean towels in sight. Looking for a towel, 2 minutes and 16 seconds. Might as well take the laundry to the Laundromat if he going to be late anyway. Maroons, whites, purples and turquoises all get tossed into the same bag, looking like multihued vomit from the men’s section at Macy’s. Now, get dressed. Gathering laundry, 4 minutes and 39 seconds.
Laundromat, cyclones of shorts, shirts and skivvies confined to their own white cubes. He needs quarters, the quarter machine is broken, that’s an extra 3 minutes looking for someone to break a five. Finally, he gets the money and starts his own hurricane in its own cube. Switch over the damp clothes. Into the warm tornado they go, work becomes less important as mesmerizing color leapfrogs over color. Red over blue over black. What would that be like?
Fate rolls its die and he walks out to the street. Every ounce of time that he stopped to do something weighs into this moment. That 16 minutes and 47 seconds for the alarm, the 2 minutes and 16 seconds looking for a towel, all of those place him here at that exact moment. Stepping out into street he doesn’t look, a bus pulling up to the curb doesn’t see him. Bang. He finds out what it would be like to be in the washing machine. Red shoes over blue jeans over black shirt, he leapfrogs over himself.
But that’s not why fate has placed him there, yes to get hit by the bus, but there’s an ulterior motive. Are you alright she asks. And he is, he knows it but so does she. Perhaps it’s that she’ll keep holding him up if he isn’t alright that he says he’s not, but he is. He’s better than he’s ever been.
He sits up in her arms in the middle of the street. Cars pass, some honk, all move on, they have places to be going, fate is carrying them somewhere. But for now, for him and for her, they are both exactly where they’re supposed to be.