It wasn’t that Brad Jones was a gambler. He hardly ever took risks.
It was just that he’d had a bad day, and the rain on his walk home from campus was making it worse. He was too wet, too cold, and too tired to remember that he wasn’t even a curious kind of guy. All his brain could manage through its misery was hating the little white man across the street who wouldn’t light up to let him cross. A van sped by and hurled a wall of slushy water at Brad. Mucky gobs of salty, dirty, mush dribbled off his glasses and down his cheeks. The last dry spot under his nylon shell dissolved. He swore and spun round to press the walk button again.
He shouldn’t even have noticed the paper fringe, wriggling and spitting in the wind. Brad Jones just wasn’t that type of guy. The flyer had ripped away, leaving half a dozen copies of the now useless phone number to fray off the pole. On any other day he wouldn’t have torn off one of the tabs and shoved it into the back pocket of his Levis. He certainly wouldn’t have remembered it when he got home. And you can be sure he never would have smoothed the tiny paper out in his palm, picked up the kitchen phone, and dialed the number.
Don’t forget to keep checking SavingCymbria! You don’t want to miss the next installment of “The Couch”-a short story by Cymbria Wood