The Last To Bet
Wasn’t it a cold March morning when she called? She had been obsessing over the headlines and needed someone to listen. The phone buzzed with a primordial hum as I lifted the handset.
“Who is this?”
“It’s Jim, who’s this?”
On it went. Someone was shot. Someone buried. And someone had their new bicycle stolen. I sipped a french roast and wandered out the window.