Lost Journals

Missy stepped out of the hulking blue caddy, hopped over several rain puddles cast with split oil rainbows and entered Jack's Standard Station.

Each week she bought one lotto ticket for every year of her life. Today, it was 29 tickets. Next week, it would be 30. Her birthday was on Thursday and again she'd be alone. No man to warm her bed, parents buried back in New Jersey, and a child who now would be fourteen but lost to her. Alone: it is the most horrible of words.

The letcherous station attendant watched her enter the small mom and pop store. Today, her black mini seemed shorter than ever. Robert spent every Wednesday awaiting her arrival. After she bought her lotto tickets, he would imagine exploring all her pink parts. How glorious - the colour pink.

"Hello," Robert greeted.

"Oh, Hi," Missy mumbled, searching through her peacoat for her wallet. The peacoat was one she'd found in a Jersey bus station.