The Number On Top

The number at the top of the printout is what got me. Not the laughers. Three strangers at a bowser, I can sort them. One was already on his phone. One had a kid on his hip and laughed to look busy. The third was just glad something was happening. I ranked them in two seconds and then I forgot their faces. That is the only job I am good at today.

The number is my father's cousin's cold case. Someone in that herp group either typed it on purpose, or forwarded a file with that header, or my name was already in a column next to it and nobody noticed until today. I do not know which is worse. The laughers were laughing at the Van Niekerk girl. I was laughing at the Van Niekerk girl, on the inside, all the way to the reserve lot.

I paid cash with the right hand. The left was leaking through the tape onto the concrete. The Citrusdal van was two pumps over. Not a stranger. The assistant-with-the-watch's driver. He was sent to look at my hand, or at the bag, or at both. I clocked him back. The bag stayed sealed. That is the only thing I did right today and I am going to think about it for a week.

I did not reply to the thread. I will not reply. If I reply I give them the second version of me, the one who explains, and the second version is the one that loses. The first version drove to a reserve lot, cleaned the gash with bottled water, ate cold beans out of the tin, and checked the mirrors twice. That version is enough.