TumbleDweeeb

B-12: A Love Number
By: Emmitt Owens
(Index #12312025)

   Look, I’m fifty-four, and I’ll tell you right now: the house didn’t echo when my youngest daughter drove off to college. It just got quiet. The kind of quiet you’ve been waiting thirty-four years for, even if you didn’t know it. The last of the kids to leave home.
     I stood at the kitchen window with my empty coffee cup—still in my hand because nobody was going to ask me why I hadn’t put it in the dishwasher yet—and watched as her taillights disappeared around the corner of Maple and Fifth. She was headed to State. Three hours away. Close enough to visit if the car broke down. Far enough that she’d have to figure shit out on her own, like the other 85% of the world.
   No tears. No crisis. Just the clean feeling of a job finished right.
     The refrigerator calendar still had her graduation circled in red Sharpie—May 20th, big ceremony at the high school football field, two hundred and forty-seven kids in polyester gowns sweating through Principal Morrison’s speech about resilience. Below the circle, in my handwriting: “Trash – Tuesday.” That was it. My whole month. One responsibility four times a month.
When the last child leaves, the house doesn’t echo. It exhales.
   And so do you.
     I need to tell you something up front: I’m not lonely.
   I’m unassigned.
     There’s a difference, and it matters.
   My wife passed many years ago. It was a February. Meningitis—the kind that moves fast once it decides to move. Bacterial. Four weeks from diagnosis to gone. We had nine years together. One kid, she was seven. A house we planned on purchasing. The kind of marriage people write songs about—real magic, the kind where you catch each other’s eye across a room full of people and just know what the other person’s thinking.
     Her name is Christina. She went by Chrissy. Said it sounded like a church secretary. Loved me calling her Bee—our pet name acquired through the healing of both of our past breakups. I called her by her name, sometimes Chrissy, but Bee meant I love you.
   After she passed, I did the whole thing. Grieved. Cried in parking lots. I cried on highway sides. I cried in showers and everywhere else the loss hit me. Went to a therapist named Dennis who had a plant in his office that was definitely plastic. Let my daughter see me fall apart so she would know it was okay to fall apart too.
     And eventually, I dated.
   Three… Maybe four if you count the one coffee that went so badly she left while I was in the bathroom.
     Good people, all of them. Smart, funny, kind. Linda was a librarian. Taught me about octopuses—did you know they have three hearts? Cheryl worked in HR and made the best lasagna I’ve ever had. Monica ran marathons and had opinions about hydration I couldn’t follow.
   But the magic wasn’t there.
     Maybe I was holding back. Maybe they didn’t believe in the same kind of magic. Maybe you only get lightning a few times in a lifetime and I’d already had my turns.
   I don’t know.
     What I do know is this: I stopped looking. Not out of bitterness. Not out of giving up. I just… stopped. We moved out of the house on Elmwood—two bedrooms, too many memories, a deck I’d built wrong twice—and got a bigger place. Across town. Three bedrooms. Windows with actual sunlight. A chair I actually sit in instead of just piling laundry on. The third bedroom became my study—full of old books, written journals from many years ago, all the stories I’ve written stored on paper or in hard drives since 1999.
   I work as a machine mechanic (Technician) for a wood component company, been there since 2015. Steady work. Boring in ways. Pays well, which is enough. Doesn’t follow me home.
     I read as much as I write these days. Mostly history. Biographies. Books about maps and how borders got drawn. Keeps me calm, observant, mostly silent. The chaos stays contained.
   Until it doesn’t.
     And Friday nights? Friday nights I go to bingo.

   My hair went gray at forty-five and I chose acceptance over resistance. Stopped dying it. Let the wizard beard grow out. Bought a ridiculous moose hat at a thrift store in Hamilton—big floppy antlers, googly eyes on the side. Ten bucks. Best investment I ever made.
     I didn’t age—I committed to the bit.
   Somewhere along the way I became a man who performs old age for sport, like I’ve performed so many other characters my whole life. Hunched posture. Slow turns. Carefully timed “oofs” when I sit down. Complaints about my back, my knees, the weather and the price of eggs.
     The noises are intentional. Because … this is theater.
   I also smoke like a chimney and drink like I’m trying to forget something, which I guess I am. Can’t smoke in the church—Father Mike would have my ass—but I keep a flask in my jacket. Sometimes two. Whiskey mostly. Cheap stuff. The kind that burns right.
     Before bingo, I usually stop at the Diner on Seventh Ave. and eat bacon. Not a couple pieces. Like eight to ten pieces—I normally eat a pound of bacon when I eat at home. A day. Slightly crispy, slightly floppy. The diner knows me. Don’t even ask anymore. Just bring the bacon and coffee and leave me alone. Let me rummage through the news articles on my phone, the newspaper I’m holding, or my yearly devotional.

   First Friday I walked into St. Augustine’s church basement—corner of Twelfth and Ashland, seven post meridian, smells like burnt coffee and Pledge or Lysol spray—Patricia was standing by the card table.
     Maybe fifty-eight if she’s a day. A once upon a time hottie. You can still see it in the bones, the way she holds herself, the sharp way her eyes track movement. The whole visual of her backside lifted twenty years prior.
   “You new?” she asked.
     “Played a couple times,” I said. “But my hearing’s shot to hell.”
   Complete lie. My hearing’s fine. But now I had license.
     She looked at me—really looked, the way people do when they’re deciding if you’re full of shit—and said, “Most of us are. You’ll fit right in.”
   Jerry was already at the caller’s table. Mid-sixties. Sounds like he gargles gravel and bourbon. Wore the same blue cardigan every week like it was a uniform.
     He pulled the first ball.
   “B-4!”
     I stared at my card. Took a sip of my church basement coffee, which tasted like it had been brewed in 1987 and reheated every day since.
   Looked at Patricia.
     “Before what?”
   She blinked. “B. Four. The number.”
     I squinted at the board like I was trying to decode Sanskrit, adjusted my moose hat. “Oh. B-4.” Sipped my coffee again. “Like before the war?”
   “What war?”
     “Exactly.” I nodded like she’d just proven my point, confirming some deep philosophical truth we’d both arrived at together.
   Daubed a square. Wrong square. O-63. Didn’t matter.
     Dolores—sitting diagonal from me, sixty-something, gray hair in a bun so tight it looked structural—made a noise like a tire deflating. Pressed her hand over her mouth.
   Patricia stared at me for five full seconds, then wrote something on her card that definitely wasn’t a bingo number.

—

   Three calls later: “I-20!”
     I looked up from my card.
   Set my coffee down.
     Patricia leaned over. “I-20, sweetie.”
   I looked at her.
     “You’re twenty?”
   “What?”
     “You said you’re twenty.”
   “No, the number is I-20.”
     I studied her face, examining her expression, reached into my jacket and took a quick pull from my flask. Medicinal. “Lord have mercy,” I said slowly. “What the hell are they feeding you? You look amazing for twenty.”
   Dolores had to leave the table. Full body collapse. Gone. Just stood up and walked to the bathroom, shoulders shaking.
     Patricia gave me a look half hearts in her eyes, half marriage proposal.
   I kept my face blank. Adjusted my moose hat. Went back to my card.

—

   Two more calls in, Jean leaned over from Dolores’s empty chair. Fifty-something, glasses on a chain, pen already moving in a little spiral notebook.
     “You need a dauber?” she asked.
   I looked at her. Set down my coffee.
     “Need a daughter?” I squinted. “I got two already. One’s got kids of her own. The other just left for college. I’ve had kids with me since 1997—that’s thirty-four years. I’m too old to raise more.”
   She blinked. “What? No, a dauber.”
     I picked up my dauber, examined it like I was seeing it for the first time. “Oh. Yeah, I’m good.”
   Sipped my coffee.
     She stared at me for a solid five seconds, then went back to writing in her notebook.
   “What’re you writing?” I asked.
     She looked up. “Keeping count.”
   “Of what?”
     “You.”
   I took another sip of coffee. “That’s flattering.”

   It became my whole thing.
     Every week, at least three derails. Always committed. Never broke character.
   Week two, Jerry called “G-60” and I looked up after setting my coffee down carefully, like I was handling evidence.
     “She’s what?”
   Patricia leaned over. “G-60, honey.”
     I squinted at her. “Sticky? Sticky with what?” I shook my head. “I don’t even wanna know.”
   Nobody said anything for a solid five seconds.
     Patricia whispered, “What are you talking about?”
   Jerry just stared at me.
     “I know what I heard,” I said, adjusting my moose antlers. Daubed a square. Took a pull from my flask under the table. Let the silence sit there.

   Week three: “N-32!”
     I furrowed my brow. Set down my dauber. Looked at my card, then at Linda.
   “And thirty-two what?”
     Linda—late fifties, kind face, always wore a purple windbreaker—looked at me. “What?”
   “She said N-32. And thirty-two what? Dogs? Bananas Regrets? Years of age? I don’t get it.”
     “It’s just N-32.”
   I shook my head, picked up my coffee. “That’s incomplete… It’s missing context.”
     Went back to my card like the matter was settled, like I’d just corrected a filing error.
   Linda stared at me for ten full seconds, gave up, daubed her own card.

   Week four, Jerry called “B-7” and I looked over at Dolores, who was reaching for her coffee.
     “Dolores,” I said, very seriously. “B-7. That’s your number.”
   She stopped mid-reach. “What?”
     “Before seven. That’s when you were dangerous.” I adjusted my hat. “Like, 6:45. Peak hours.”
   She blinked at me. “Peak hours for what?”
     “Trouble.” I sipped my coffee. “The kind that ruins marriages.”
   Patricia choked on her coffee.
     Dolores just stared at me, then her face cracked. Full laugh. Had to put her head down on the table.
   Jerry stopped calling numbers entirely. Just watched.
     When Dolores finally sat back up, mascara slightly smudged, she pointed at me. “You’re a menace.”
   “I’m accurate.” Daubed my card.
     Jerry cracked. Full smile. First time I’d seen his teeth. We were fine after that.

   The women loved it because it wasn’t creepy. Wasn’t desperate. Wasn’t trying to get anywhere.
     I was just a man in a moose hat creating small, controlled disasters with confidence.
   Sometimes I’d drop context bombs with zero setup and let them sit there like unexploded ordnance.
     One night Linda said, “Can you pass the dauber?”
   I looked at her. Looked to my left, my right, and back to her, eyes wider than before. Facial expression like I was surprised.
     “It’s under the—what’s under the table?”
   “What?”
     I pulled my chair out. I leaned over. Looked under the table for a solid three seconds. “Where under the table is it?”
   “There’s nothing there.”
     “Huh.” Sat back up. Adjusted my moose hat. “That’s consistent.”
   “With what?”
     “Earlier.” Daubed my card.
   “What happened earlier?”
     “Can’t say.” Sipped my coffee.
   She just stared at me.
     I went back to my card.

   Week five, I was buying coffee at the urn. The volunteer—sweet girl, maybe nineteen, community service hours for something, pretty in that way that makes you feel like a museum exhibit—said, “Two dollars.”
     I heard it fine.
   Pulled out my wallet. “Too tall for what?”
     “What?”
   “You said too tall.”
     “I said two dollars.”
   “Oh.” I handed her two singles, looked at her like I was reading a historical marker. “Lord have mercy, y’all are upgraded versions of what I chased back in the 90’s. That smile caused at least two divorces.”
     She laughed.
   That laugh was the exit ramp.
     I took my coffee. Left. Didn’t explain.
   Heard her say to someone else, “What did he mean by that?”
     She probably spent the rest of the night trying to work it out.

   Dolores started calling me B-12 in week six, after I made the vitamin joke.
     Jerry had called it—”B-12!”—and I’d looked up from my card, set down my coffee.
   “The love vitamin,” I said, loud enough for two tables to hear.
     Patricia blinked. “The what?”
   “B-12. The love vitamin.” I held up my dauber like I was demonstrating. “It’s cobalamin. Helps your red blood cells, keeps your nerves working, builds your DNA. You don’t get enough of it, you get tired, weak, depressed, your hands shake, you can’t remember shit, your tongue gets sore.” I adjusted my moose hat. “But most importantly? Keeps your hands steady when it matters. Makes things stand up that need to stand up.”
     Dead silence.
   Dolores choked on her coffee. Full coughing fit.
     Patricia’s face went red.
   “Medically accurate,” I added, completely straight-faced. Daubed my square.
   After that, it stuck.
     “There’s our B-12,” she’d say when I walked in.
   And every single time Jerry actually called B-12, the whole damn table would turn and look at me like I’d been summoned by subpoena.
     I’d nod. Solemn. Adjust my hat. Like I was acknowledging receipt of official documents.

   One night, week seven, Jean leaned over during the break and said, “You know what you are?”
     “Trouble?” I took a sip of my coffee.
   “A B-12 kind of man.”
     “What’s that mean?”
   She smiled. Took her glasses off. Cleaned them on her shirt. “Necessary. Small. Overlooked. Keeps the system running.” Put her glasses back on. “No fireworks. Just function.”
     I sat with that for weeks.
   Love doesn’t have to be loud. Sometimes it just keeps your hands from shaking. Helps you stand up almost every time you want to stand up.

   I flirt with these women the way you flirt with a good bartender. Generously. Historically. With zero follow-through.
     “Dolores, when I win tonight, I’m taking you to Applebee’s. Steak. Wine. Dessert. The whole shebang.”
   “You said that last week.”
     “Did I win last week?”
   “No.”
     “Well then.” I daubed my card. “Void contract.”
   She shook her head and smiled.

   Patricia collects daubers. Has maybe seventy of them at this point. All colors. Some shaped like fruit. Some with glitter that gets everywhere.
     “Patricia, that’s a hell of a dauber collection.” I took a pull from my flask.
   “I like options.”
     I looked at her. Set down my flask. “Options are important. Especially at our age.” Adjusted my moose hat. “Never know which one’s gonna work on any given night.”
   She blinked. “We’re talking about daubers, right?”
     “Are we?” I picked up a purple sparkly one, examined it. “This one looks ambitious.”
   Dolores snorted so hard she had to cover her face.
     Patricia turned red but she was laughing. “You’re terrible.”
   “I’m practical.” Daubed my card with her purple dauber. “See? Works perfectly.”
     She laughed so hard she missed G-46, O-71, and N-38.

   Week eight, I showed up late—actually late, not theater late. Hit traffic on Route 9, construction near the exit. Stopped at the diner first, ate my bacon standing at the counter because I didn’t have time to sit. Smoked three cigarettes in the parking lot before heading in.
     Shuffled to my chair. Big groan sitting down. Louder than usual. Committed.
   Linda looked concerned. “You okay, moose?”
     “Yeah. Just my back.” I set my coffee down, adjusted in my seat with another theatrical wince.
   “What happened?”
     I looked at her like I was trying to remember a dream I’d had in 1987. Took a sip of coffee.
   “Lifted something.”
     “What?”
   “Can’t remember.” Sipped again. Thought about it. “Could’ve been a box. Could’ve been a raccoon. Felt alive.”
     “When did this happen?”
   “Also can’t remember.” Pulled out my flask, took a quick sip. “Tuesday? Maybe 2003.”
     Patricia leaned over. “You lifted something in 2003 and your back hurts now?”
   I looked at her like she’d just proven my point. “That’s how backs work, Patricia. Delayed consequences.”
     Dolores put her forehead on the table and stayed there for two full minutes.

   Week nine, Jerry called “I-16” and I said, loud enough for three tables to hear, adjusted my moose hat first, “I’m sixteen? Hot damn, I feel better already. That explains the knees.”
     Woman two tables over—never seen her before, visiting from another parish maybe—snorted coffee out her nose.
   Jerry didn’t even look up. Just reached for the next ball like this was routine weather.

   They know I’m widowed. Came up once, early on, when Linda asked if I was married.
     “Was,” I said. Sipped my coffee. “She passed years ago.”
   Table went quiet for half a second.
     So I said, “She would’ve hated this. Too slow. She liked poker. Cigarettes and lots of whiskey. She was wild at heart. Youthful. Very beautiful. Sexy as hell. Mindful when it mattered.” I adjusted my moose hat. “Could also curse in three languages and out-drink any man in the room. Including me. Especially me.”
   Linda smiled. Soft. Real. “Sounds like a hell of a woman.”
     “She was.” I took a pull from my flask. “She really was.”
   That was it. No performance. No pity.
     We kept playing.

   The … almost ..  happened in April. Week twelve, maybe thirteen. I lose track.
     Her name was Carol.
   Mid-fifties. Short gray hair, the kind of haircut that means she stopped giving a shit what men think about ten years ago. Good laugh—not performative, just real. New to the group. Showed up week eleven, sat in the back, didn’t talk much.
     I noticed her because she won twice in one night and apologized both times like she belched without covering her mouth.
   “Sorry,” she said after her second win. “Sorry, I didn’t—”
     “Don’t apologize for winning,” Dolores said. “That’s how they get you.”
   Carol laughed.
     After the game she came over to the coffee urn where I was standing, trying to decide if a third cup was a good idea, home and bed sounded better.
   “You’re the moose,” she said.
     “Guilty.” I adjusted my hat.
   “They talk about you.”
     “All lies.” Poured my coffee.
   She poured hers. Black. No sugar. Just like mine. “You really hard of hearing or is that complete bullshit?”
     I looked at her. Also a once upon a time hottie. Still is, still was. The kind of face that photographs well, the kind that made men stupid probably in 1998.
   Took a sip of my coffee. “What bullshit?”
     She smiled. Didn’t push. “You always come alone?”
   “Always.”
     “Me too.” Stirred her coffee even though there was nothing in it. Just stirred. “I was married thirty-one years. He died two years ago. Heart attack. In the driveway. Very dramatic. Paramedics said he was gone before he hit the ground.”
   “I’m sorry.” I meant it.
     “Don’t be. He was kind of an asshole.” Said it light. No weight. “But he was my asshole, you know?”
   I nodded. Took another sip.
     Silence. Not uncomfortable. Just there.
   Then she said, “I don’t know how to do this.”
     “What?” I adjusted my moose hat.
   “The alone thing.”
     “You’re doing fine.”
   “Am I?” Real question. Not rhetorical. “Because most days I think I should be on a dating app or taking a pottery class or joining a book club or whatever the fuck you’re supposed to do when your husband dies and your kids move to Denver.”
     “I don’t know what you’re supposed to do.” Sipped my coffee.
   “What do you do?”
     “I come to bingo.” I looked at her. “And I eat a lot of bacon and rinse it down with beer.”
   She laughed.
     Long pause. She looked at me. Really looked.
   “Would you want to get coffee sometime? Real coffee. Not this church basement battery acid.”
     Here’s the thing: I’m quiet most of the time. Books keep the chaos contained. But when the character activates, I’m a limited-run embarrassment engine with no off switch.
   And I didn’t know yet if the magic was there.
     So I told her the truth.
   “I don’t take people home until I know how they laugh when nothing’s happening.”
     She blinked. Set her coffee down. “What?”
   “I mean I don’t know you yet. And I don’t rush things I don’t know.” I took a sip. “I tried that. After my wife died. Dated a few women. Good people. But the magic wasn’t there. And I’m not interested in anything without magic.”
     She studied me. Picked her coffee back up. “That’s very careful.”
   “I’m very careful.”
     “You interested?”
   “I’m here every Friday. So are you now. Let’s start there and see what happens.”
     She smiled. Real smile. The kind that means something.
   “Okay.”
     “Okay.”
   She walked back to her table.
     I pulled out my flask. Took a pull. Put it back.
   I walked back to my table.
     As I was taking my seat Jerry called the next number.
   “B-12!”
     Whole table turned. Looked at me.
   I nodded. Adjusted my moose hat. Like I’d just signed a treaty.
     Necessary. Small. Overlooked.

   Week fourteen, metacomedy phase fully activated.
Jerry called “O-69.”
     I looked up from my card. Set down my coffee slowly.
   Stared at the board for a long moment.
     Then, just loud enough for the table to hear: “Oh, sixty-nine… haven’t done that since the late twenties.”
   Sipped my coffee.
     Dolores choked. “Jesus Christ, moose.”
   Patricia fanned herself with her bingo card. “It’s warm in here, right? Is it warm?”
     Jean didn’t even look up from her notebook. Just wrote something down and muttered, “Still got it.”
   Linda leaned over. “The number or the activity?”
     “Yes.” I daubed my card.
   The whole table lost it. Full collapse.
     People at other tables were staring, trying to figure out what they missed.
   I just adjusted my moose hat. Took another sip of coffee.
     “Moving on,” Jerry said, pulling the next ball like his life depended on it.

   Three calls later: “G-55!”
     I looked up. Set down my dauber. Took a sip of coffee.
   “Gee, fifty-five?” I looked around the table. “That’s the average age here. We’re all G-55s.”
     Patricia pointed at me. “Speak for yourself.”
   “I am. I’m fifty-four. You’re bringing the average up.”
     Dolores leaned back. “I’m fifty-eight, thank you very much.”
   “Exactly. Someone’s gotta balance out Linda.”
     Linda looked offended. “I’m fifty-six!”
   “Could’ve fooled me. I had you at forty-nine, easy.”
     She blushed. “Oh stop.”
   “I’m serious. What are they feeding you? Same thing as Patricia?”
     The room lost it. Full laughter from multiple tables.
   Jerry put his head in his hands.
     Patricia muttered, “He’s doing it again.”
   Jean looked up from her notebook. “Doing what?”
     “Being trouble.”
   I took a sip of my coffee. Adjusted my moose hat. “That’s flattering.”

   Week fifteen, Carol sat next to me.
     Didn’t ask. Just moved her stuff over. Set her daubers down. Three of them. Modest collection.
   “Morning, B-12.”
     “Morning.” I adjusted my moose hat.
   Jerry called the first number.
     “I-18.”
   I looked at Carol. Sipped my coffee.
     “You’re eighteen?”
   She didn’t even blink. “I wish.”
     “Me too. That was a good year.”
   “For you?”
     “For everyone. The whole country. Peak year.” I daubed my card.
   “That tracks.”
     We both kept playing.
   She leaned over slightly. “You should’ve seen me in a bikini when I was young.”
     I set down my coffee. Looked at her—really looked. My eyes went a little wider.
   “Carol, I’m looking at you right now and I’m already seeing you in a bikini. You’re beautiful.”
     She blushed. Actually blushed. “You’re full of shit.”
“I’m full of bacon and whiskey, but I’m not full of shit.” I adjusted my moose hat. “That’s a medically accurate assessment.”
   She laughed. That real laugh.
     Dolores was writing furiously in her notebook, turning pages like she was documenting evidence.

   Two calls later: “N-44!”
     I squinted at the board. Set down my coffee. Looked at Carol.
   “And forty-four what? Chromosomes? Hell, that’d explain some things around here.”
     Carol choked on her coffee.
   Patricia yelled from across the table, “Jesus Christ, moose.”
     I adjusted my hat. Kept my face blank. “Just documenting observations.”

   Week sixteen, someone new showed up. Guy. Maybe sixty. Sat at table two. Polo shirt. Looked confused.
     Jerry called “B-9.”
   Before I could say anything, Dolores yelled, “Don’t.”
     I looked at her. Set down my coffee. “Phone? Where’s it at?”
   “What?”
     I started patting my pockets. Looking around. “You said my phone. Who’s calling me in the middle of bingo?” I stood up slightly, scanning the table. “Where’d I put it?”
   “I said don’t.”
     “Don’t answer the phone?” I looked genuinely concerned. “Must be important if you’re telling me not to answer.”
   Patricia had her face in her hands.
     I sat back down. Took a pull from my flask. “False alarm, I guess.”
   The new guy at table two looked around like he’d missed something important.
     He had.

   Week seventeen, the peak.
     I’d eaten extra bacon that morning. A full pound. Smoked half a pack of cigarettes in the parking lot. Had two flasks instead of one.
   Jerry pulled the ball.
     “B-12!”
   I stood up.
     Everyone froze. Dead silence. You could hear the fluorescent lights humming.
   I looked around the room. Slow. Adjusted my moose hat. Took a sip of my coffee.
     Held up both hands like I was receiving an award.
   “The love vitamin has arrived.”
     Pause.
   “Keeps your hands steady.” I demonstrated with perfectly steady hands. “Makes things stand up.” I gestured at myself standing. “And apparently—” I looked down at my bingo card, “—knows when to show up.”
     Sat back down.
   Daubed my card with absolute precision.
     Carol was beside me, face completely red, biting her lip. Made a small clearing throat sound.
   I glanced at her. “You okay?”
     She just nodded, didn’t trust herself to speak.
   Dolores’s pen broke. Actual snap. Ink everywhere.
     Jean just wrote “GOD” in her notebook and underlined it three times.
   Patricia whispered to Linda, “He planned that.”
     “Of course he did,” Linda whispered back.
   I sipped my coffee. Innocent as a moose in a church basement.

   After the game, Carol walked me to my car. Escalade. 2021. Runs fine.
     “You’re something else,” she said.
   “I’m something.” I pulled out a cigarette, lit it.
     “You know exactly what you’re doing, don’t you?”
   I took a drag. Looked at her.
     “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
   She laughed. That real laugh. The one that means magic might be nearby, might be setting up camp, might be deciding to stay.
     “Same time next week?” she asked.
   “Same time.” I took another drag.
     She started to walk away, then turned back.
   “Hey.”
     “Yeah?”
   “That thing you said. About knowing how someone laughs when nothing’s happening.”
     “Yeah?” I flicked ash.
   “I think you’re starting to know.”
     She walked to her car. Covered in dog hair even though she told me later she didn’t have a dog anymore.
   I sat in my Cadillac for a minute. Finished my cigarette. Didn’t start the engine. Just sat.
     Thought about that.

   I left at nine-thirty. Like always.
     Stopped at the diner on the way home. Ordered bacon. Eight pieces. Ate them standing at the counter. Smoked two more cigarettes in the parking lot.
   NPR on the drive home. Something about rivers in Montana. Half-listened.
     Back at home—I made coffee. French blend. Read the canister. “Calming blend.” Seemed optimistic. Poured in some whiskey anyway.
   Opened my book. Still the one about maps. How the border between Iowa and Missouri got drawn wrong in 1849 because of a surveying error no one caught for sixty years.
     Sat in my chair. The good one. The one that doesn’t hurt my back.
   Place wasn’t empty. It was complete.
     I thought about Carol. Whether the magic was there. Whether I’d know for sure or if it was always a guess.
   Thought about Chrissy. The magic we had. The way she’d look at me when I said something stupid and somehow it meant I love you.
     Thought about B-12. The love vitamin.
   Necessary. Small. Overlooked. Keeps the system running.
     B-12 isn’t the number you win on. It’s the number that keeps you standing long enough to enjoy the game.
   Maybe that’s enough.
     Maybe that’s everything.
   Read until my eyes got heavy. Around eleven.
     Outside, the city hummed. Friday night chaos. Cars. Distant laughter. Someone’s car alarm going off for the third time this week.
   Inside, still.
     I slept like I earned my quiet.
   And Tuesday, I’d take out the trash.