With quarters and a smile. Be back in a bit baby. That's what you said. It didn't occur to me that you wouldn't. I played. Rolled quarters into narrow blackness. Machines three, four times as old as I was twinkled into life. Their light was yellow. Was orange. Was blue. Was awesome. You'd never taken me anywhere like this. I thought I had been good—listened, stayed quiet, finished my homework before dinner. I thought I earned it. Deserved it. I slammed my fingers against the buttons and watched flippers dance, lift and land. The balls rolled, their growl so satisfying. I caught whiffs of cotton candy, even though there wasn't any to be found. I know, I looked. I walked between rows of machines lined up like the herbs in the garden that Daddy planted before he split. And Paul watered before he died. And Sergio ignored before he left. And Andrew. And Thomas. My feet started hurting and the whiffs of cotton candy turned my stomach in on itself, like a dachshund catching his own tail. The sky outside was yellow. Was orange. Was blue. Was lonesome. You left me at the Pinball Hall of Fame and I don't forgive you. Even though you didn't ask, I don't forgive you. Even if you do come back and ask, I never will.


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