It was an exceptionally lovely spring day in northern Wisconsin. The March sun was unimpeded by clouds, using its waxing power to steadily shrink the whale-sized snowbanks bordering every parking lot. I grew drowsy in the upstairs seating of the cozy coffee shop, reveling in conversation with sisters on a slow morning.

From our upstairs perch, we could see patrons — at least their bottom half — as they entered the shop and stepped up to the counter to browse menu options. My eye was repeatedly drawn to the paperboard box on the counter holding various flavors of Seroogy chocolate bars, namely the Mint Meltaway variety (which — as anyone of good taste knows — is the king of Seroogy flavors).

I knew my smallest bill note was $20, which felt silly to break for a $1.50 chocolate bar. My sisters willingly scrounged in their wallets and produced an assortment of dollar bills and quarters and thrust them in my direction. I thought (very briefly) about refusing their offer, but the Mint Meltaway was calling. Dollar and quarters in hand, I waited for a break in conversation to make my way down the tight spiral staircase to step up to the counter for my prize. As I waited, I gave in to the urge to playfully toss a coin in my sister’s direction.

Then fate intervened. Or, perhaps, an ancient curse that had been waiting in the attic of this old building for a poor person with less-than-perfect karma. A coin toss turned terrible.

It started innocently enough – the coin wobbled through the air in a shallow arc with low velocity, on target for a harmless strike on the torso. I underestimated the elasticity of the cotton sweatshirt, however, and watched with growing horror as the quarter bounced off my sister’s front and clattered to the floor. As fate — oh, terrible fate — would have it, that little quarter caromed off the floor with the eagerness of a colt from the stall, rising up on its ribbed edge and rolling back toward me with alarming speed. It traced a parabola to slingshot itself straight toward the front of the building where the railing guarded our upstairs perch from the counter below. It refused to hesitate even a moment at the precipice that marked where floor met wall, leaping into oblivion and free-falling to land with a cringeworthy clatter on the Bunn coffee maker below us.

I held my breath, waiting for sweeping spotlights to fix their gaze on me for my barista bombing, but the coffee shop didn’t erupt into chaos. My cheeks flushed and my sisters looked at me wide-eyed, then burst into unrestrained laughter. I sheepishly gathered the remaining quarters and bills, creeping down the metal staircase, my winter boots betraying my descent into the new battle zone.

As I made my request for the chocolate bar, I fumbled one of the additional quarters and was horrified to see it careening to the floor. Forced to waddle around in a forward fold, I chased another quarter-dollar around the carpet, wondering if the rush of blood to my head was related to my upside-down posture or my series of unfortunate events. I confessed my error to the wait staff and thoroughly confused them with my request to keep the clattering quarter for their fundraising efforts rather than place the wandering coin back into my pocket, a weighty reminder of my embarrassment (“But the chocolate bar is only $1.50,” the barista insisted). I raced back up the stairs as quickly as I dared, sharing the Mint Meltaway with my giggling sisters, tucking the sweet confection into my flushed cheeks and enjoying the fruits of my folly.