It would actually have been really cool if Lucile had been able to do one thing, just one thing, perfectly right. She didn’t need to do everything perfectly right, she didn’t even need to do a few things perfectly right. All she wanted to do was to have one thing that she could do perfectly right.

She was an excellent dancer, but not enough to do it professionally nor could she do less in the clubs. She could take shots like a champ, but she would inevitably end up in a fight or naked – occasionally she did both. Her homemade dinners were restaurant quality, but there was always one side dish she forgot to make or one ingredient she had to improvise on making it less than perfect. No matter what Lucile did she could never get it right.

It was almost funny how often and the ways in which her glaring imperfections manifested. Lucile nailed a dance move practicing in heels – the heel snaps. Want to make flat perfect sugar cookies, something goes wrong in her dough and they puff up like a bloated Santa Claus. Sometimes Lucile could laugh along. Sometimes Lucile could ask for, or just, accept help. Most of the time Lucile wanted to scream and put her fist through a wall. But that would mean she was able to do something perfectly right, so naturally at best Lucile would end up with a broken hand and not a broken wall. Unfortunately for Lucile’s left hand she learned this in her early twenties. She felt if she didn’t take a step back she was going to have to relearn how less than perfect she was at the cost of her right hand.

At one point Lucile thought that her anger and drive could push her forward to truly excel at all areas of one thing if she just channeled it correctly. It had gone almost as well as the wall punching. Almost.

Lucile just wanted to do one thing and to do it perfect tens across the board. No substitutions, no let downs or disappoints, no incidences, no help. Just one thing. Lucile paced through her kitchen enraged over her job. Write the article, name the article, edit the article, submit the article. There were four basic parts. Lucile was one of the best writers she knew, but even that had to be tainted by her own inadequacies. Lucile couldn’t properly name any of her articles to save her job. At least that’s what the joke in the office was… “one day Lucile, they’re gonna fire you for the titles you come up with!” All done in great fun, with sounds of resounding laughter. All Lucile heard was the blood pulverising her veins as it viciously pumped through her ears.

She had been nominated in several categories for one of her pieces. One of them had essentially been “best title.” Lucile had shot her table when they named her article in the category. No one said anything as the first award she won was for something she didn’t do. Her teammates didn’t say anything. It had been the only time they saw such a look strain across Lucile’s face. She left the award dinner immediately after – her editor saying she had a personal emergency.

Lucile continued to storm through her kitchen holding her award in one hand and a drink in the other. Her heels clicking sharply into the floor. The dress she was wearing slipped off. The shoes required more of an effort. It was an unusual sight to see a tall woman parading through her apartment in pajamas and heels. Lucile didn’t care though. She couldn’t focus on anything but the rage. She thought of all the writer’s who would report on the awards tomorrow, “Best of the Best,” “Writing to Recognition,” Lucile stopped herself. Really? Writing to Recognition? She sucked. She knew it. She could write an article on this shit better than anyone, and it wasn’t even her department, but could she name it? Of course she fucking couldn’t. Lucile was losing patience with herself. Looking at the hefty trophy in her hand and the empty glass in her other, she stormed over to the sink. She put her glass next to the sink, perhaps she’d want to have one more glass when she came back inside. Right now, she was going outside for a smoke. She had quit the stereotypical writer’s lifestyle years ago. Every once in a while when a story cut to deep or she pulled back to back all nighters, Lucile would grab an emergency cigarette from the pack she hid in her house.

Fumbling with the door to her balcony, her cigarette, lighter, and trophy, Lucile tripped getting out the door. The trophy landing on her right foot. Lucile couldn’t even scream from how bad it hurt. She was certain she had to have broken it. Of course it would be the trophy. What else could it have possibly been. Lucile couldn’t take it anymore. Picking up the trophy from the floor Lucile bitterly mocked herself and the award, “Knocking Out the Competition – Hard Facts Writer Lucile Blindt Takes the Trophy for her Articles in True Crime.” That’s what they should name the fucking article tomorrow, she thought as she pitched the trophy forward.

Lucile never found out that she won four other awards that night. True to her self-described lifestyle of imperfections, she had overshot the balcony and threw the award directly into the ledge of the balcony above her. It ricocheted off, and landed directly in the middle of her forehead. Found the next day by her editor, and loving boyfriend, Lucile died as the headlines put it, “True Crime Hits the City Where it Hurts – Mourning the loss of Lucile Blindt, celebrated writer and award winning journalist.”

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