The Receipt I Still Carry
Her number's still folded in my wallet, never redialed. The bar closes for good tonight and I still don't call.
The bar's closing for good after tonight, some notice taped to the door about the lease. I've been coming here on and off for two years and I only found out an hour ago, from the bartender pouring free shots and saying it like a toast.
I paid cash on purpose. I never pay cash here. It gives me a reason to open the part of my wallet where the receipts pile up behind my metro card, and dig until I hit the one from June before last, her number in blue pen gone soft at the fold from how many times I've unfolded it and put it back.
We talked for four hours that night. She wrote it down while the check was still open, before either of us said anything about calling. I told myself I'd text once I figured out what to say. Fourteen months of figuring.
The bartender's stacking chairs around me. Somebody's turning the neon off row by row. I have my phone out, her name typed and waiting, cursor blinking after it.
I put the receipt back behind the metro card, careful with the fold, and order one more for the road instead.