Lottery Ticket

Remember

back in the day,

crossing Tower Avenue

between the Cove and

the Casablanca?

You would ask a girl to dance.

It was terrifying.

It was so loud that

you had to scream into her ear:

DO YOU WANNA DANCE?

After,

if you were lucky,

you got her number.

She would say,

Do you have a pen?

You would ask the bartender or

the waitress to borrow theirs.

She would write her name and number

on a cocktail napkin.

You’d thank her,

tell her you’d give her a call.

She would smile and

disappear back onto the dance floor.

You would look at this number

like it was a launch code,

valuable and

dangerous.

You would try to memorize it quickly,

in case the napkin was lost or torn.

It was a like a lottery ticket

in your pocket.

When you got home,

you would set it

carefully

on the dresser and

promise yourself

not to call too soon.

Heather, you would say to yourself,

dreamy and sleepy as

you faded slowly into slumber.

Her name is Heather.

In the morning,

the first thing you would do is

check the dresser,

make sure

it was

real.

 

 

 

  • Copyright Timothy Downs
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