Lucky Ticket
My hands shake as I hand over the bills to the attendant at the gas station. The place smells like cleaner and stale hot dogs, and the floor is covered in marks from where the mop went by with dirty water. He asks to see my ID and so I fish it out of the plastic sleeve in my wallet, the leather worn from years of use. He looks at it then hands me a playslip. I write down the numbers I’ve been thinking about all morning, hesitating when the gravity of it all makes my pen waver. If I order them in just the right way, I could win. If I don’t, I’m short $10 that I probably shouldn’t have parted with, and possibly left with a broken heart. I let impulse decide for me, and hand the slip back to the guy. In return, he hands me my ticket and asks if there’s anything else he can get me. I say yes, actually there is and walk out with a pack of cigarettes.
