Two Sentences

            He rose from the ground, pushing himself up with all his might, the glistening sun making the fresh blood on his lip sparkle.  Robert hadn’t taken a punch to the face like that since… last week.  He raised his sleeve to the cut, dabbing at the welling blood.  His opponent turned proudly and pushed his way through the ring of men watching the altercation.  For the third time this month, Robert lost a bout at the Las Vegas fight club.  In fact, his last victory took place over three years ago.  Since then, broken ribs, a fractured clavicle, and two major lacerations had kept him from fighting at 100 percent.  Not that his 100 percent was any good.  Robert’s fighting style lacked balance, power, and grace, so his punches landed with the equivalent force of a preteen girl’s slap.

            Embarrassed and ashamed, he slunk out of the ring and headed for the door.  Robert slipped out of the abandoned factory as discretely as possible and walked to his rusting AMC Eagle Wagon.  That car was the bane of his existence.  Nearly every time he stepped on the gas, the thing would backfire and send a billowing cloud of toxic fumes into the reproachful atmosphere.  Robert stepped on the gas, and with a bang he was off.  He now barreled down the highway, aimed at his favorite gas station. 

            Minutes later, Robert’s smoking car pulled into the parking lot. Bells tinkled as he pushed open the decrepit door of the station and was greeted by Martha, his least favorite attendant, the one who always dressed like she’d taken a wrong turn during the 80s and hadn’t found her way back since.  He walked over to the plexiglass case in the back of the room and selected one of the “fresh” sandwiches he always chose.  Only one thing continually dove him to put up with the stale bread and wilting lettuce.  Self-loathing.  Robert limped his way to the counter where a display of lottery tickets caught his eye.  Oh what the hell, he thought, asking for one Megabucks ticket.  Seeing that he was short a few cents, he reached into his pocket to find some coins.  His searching fingers passed over his lucky 1945 quarter, the one prized possession he had.  God forbid he accidently pay using that.  Eventually he scrounged the proper change and paid.

            Surprised at himself for stepping out of the boundaries of his measly existence, for taking a chance with the lottery ticket, he frowned and hobbled over to a booth.  Once seated, he held up the sandwich in his left hand and the ticket in the other.  Today, he would let a coin decide his fate.  Heads, he eats the sandwich and continues down the same path of misery and solitude.  Perhaps it was destiny.  Tails, he throws out this poor excuse for food, takes the ticket home, and plops in front of the TV until the winning numbers are released.  Looking from the lotto ticket to the pale gas station sandwich, Robert shot his lucky coin up with a flick of his thumb, hearing its never changing metal ring.