Result
He didn't know who he was going to tell first.
He drank his coffee—it was awful as ever, gritty and stagnant, black because he forgot to ask for cream and sugar and figured it was too late to bother. The little card stared up at him from the table, greenish in the fluorescents, reflected print bending on the ceramic as he drank. The results had not changed no matter how many times he read them.
What would his parents say? There would be preparations to be made, arrangements, provisions. They wouldn't want it, but it would have to be done. Would his coworkers treat him differently when they found out? He had read about that kind of thing. How would his friends react? How would he tell them? Would they know he was still the same as he was before this thing came?
The waitress approached—the cute one, the one with the freckles on her nose. Black coffee and an empty stomach made his hands jittery as he opened his wallet. A lonely fiver lay inside, the last of his cash until payday. That didn't matter much now either, he guessed.
"It's three fifty," she said. Her smile was bright and balmy. "No rush. I can refill you again if you want." She saw the card on the table in front of him, crinkled and colorful on the chipped Formica. "Did you play? I heard the jackpot was fifty million."
He slipped the ticket off the counter and put it in his pocket. The six numbers left little smudges on his thumb, the same numbers still scrolling across the TV hanging behind the cash register. He wiped his hand on his jeans and handed her the five dollar bill. He remembered her name, and returned her smile.
"Keep the change," he said.
~
© Heather Domin
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