by Al Drinkle
As an occasional victim of the snack attack, my wife asked if we could make a stop for a frozen treat on our ride home from the river. She disappeared into the convenience store while I minded our bikes, my face towards the evening sun, my heart dreaming of faraway lands. After a few moments, a throaty inquiry startled me from my springtide reverie.
“You got an allen key, bud?”
It was a woman about my age, also steadying two bicycles and looking at me through eyes overseasoned by life’s interminable tribulations. I replied in the negative, with an apology.
“That’s alright,” she muttered, “everything’s going to be alright.” As she fiddled with one of her brakes, a similarly streetworn man burst out of the store. In one fluid motion, he tore the mask from his face, placed a cigarette in his smile and set it ablaze. With legs akimbo, he triumphantly presented a slip of paper to the woman.
“What the hell is that?” she asked accusingly, motioning for a cigarette. “649?”
“That’s right, baby. Tonight’s jackpot.”
“Well, I hope you win,” she grumbled, flashing him a look that questioned the wisdom of such an investment.
The man swung a leg over one of the bikes and replied, “I’ve been winning since the day I met you.” He said it like he meant it, and her face melted into a bashful smile as they rode into the setting sun.
They had their bikes, a pack of smokes, a lottery ticket and each other. Everything was going to be alright.
