An awkward thirty seconds.

Waiting for the elevator the other day, my bored gaze fell on my umbrella handle. I looked at the stout, hook-shaped handle, and thought how easy it would be to trip someone in the street, if I wasn't careful.

Caught up in my mental image of the scene, I decided to play it out to see how it could work. Turning my umbrella around, I hooked the handle around my ankle.
See, just the right size to catch someone around the ankle, I thought to myself.

And then, for some reason unbeknownst to even myself, I yanked on the umbrella, and quite literally tripped myself. Yes. Yanked my own ankle up in the air, sending myself sprawling in the corridor.

Oh, the joys of being me.

And of course, at exactly that moment (because aren't these things written in fate?), the elevator arrived and the doors opened. The people inside gaped at me. Six saucer eyes and three saucer mouths.

There was naught to be done but to disentangle my limbs and gather myself into the elevator. And stare really hard at the spot on the floor, right by my feet. And listen to the thunderous silence, bursting with tension, of everyone else desperately trying to think of casual mutterings to mutter.

It had been a while since I'd felt that awkward anyway, I suppose.