Today we write something that takes place: in the casino.
Finally got the towel rack up in the bathroom today. I'd get into how stupid the design of that thing is, but I've wasted enough energy on it already.
Lydia had stopped thinking at least an hour ago. Her body was on autopilot: fingers reached into the bucket resting on her lap, grasped a quarter, pulled it out, placed it in the slot machine, pulled the lever, repeat. If she didn't call it a night, or a morning, or whatever time of day it was, she was going to develop so much muscle in her right arm she wouldn't be able to walk straight.
But still she played, some tiny voice instructing her limbs that the next pull would earn her the jackpot. No, not the next one next one, the one after that. Just keep going, all right? You can't win if you don't play.
Casual gamblers, the ones who didn't have retirement plans based on dice or slots or cards, would stand and watch Lydia for a while before moving on. Some whispered quietly to each other, but none spoke directly to her. It was obvious she wasn't really there.
When, some eight or nine hours later, she finally did hit the jackpot, she didn't even notice. She just kept pulling quarters from the bucket, placing them into the machine, and pulling the lever.