Scratch Card

The man scratches the card outside the bus station. Anchor. Bell. Cherry. I am back inside. So seemless. How it started in the bathroom. Sat on the side. Measuring up. Slipped into watching you leave. 6am. Not quite sure if it was real. If I was real again. This could always be. You know. I know. We never say. I am holding everyone up. The fumble of company drains from me. It is so clear. Back inside. Locked in curtains. Wrapped in doors. Don’t lift your eyes. Don’t glance. You know better. Armed with a hundred questions. Fighting off an answer. My hand leaves the foil on the side. I touch the empty creases in the morning. My little banter. My game. Anchor. Bell. Cherry. How fucking clever. I am so good at losing I look like I want to win. Inside I strike a row of three. Little pieces of black scratchings fall to the ground. Gather around me. Comfortable as nothing. All that I need.