Flash

Jackpot!

The phone on the land line is ringing. It's a basic black corded phone, $19.99 at Canadian Tire, no bells, whistles or caller ID. A back-up in the unlikely event of wireless system failure.

Alexandra stares at it. Nobody calls that number any more, except the occasional telemarketer, but the robocall screen generally takes care of that.

Don't be stupid. Don't answer.

But what if it's him?

How could it possibly be him? It was so long ago.

Alexandra was incredibly drunk that night, laughing at everything like a crazy person. Someone had invited her to a farewell party for Tony, who was reporting for basic military training the next day. There was no way of knowing where they would send him. Perhaps to his death.

She barely knew Tony, but somehow she ended up dancing with him again and again, pressing herself against him, shielding him from the imaginary bullets that buzzed through her imagination. He was a nice guy, after all, and didn't deserve to die.

Soon they were in a dark corner, fumbling at each other's clothes. They didn't go all the way, but Tony got very sentimental and asked if she would marry him. He said he needed something lovely to focus on when things got miserable, as they surely would.

Because everything was funny at the moment, she giggled hysterically and said she would marry him when she won Lotto 649. Like that was ever going to happen! She was never the gambling kind. It just seemed kinder than saying "when hell freezes over."

But her mother, bless her, bought her a lottery ticket for her 49th birthday. And now Alexandra has 4.3 million and change. Not a big win, as big wins go, but enough to have that stupid tattoo removed.

Tony was totally into the 649 thing. "Let's seal our bargain with a tattoo!"

"As long as it's not a kiss," she said, wrinkling her nose and tossing back another shot of vodka straight from the bottle. "Kisses are so messy."

She can't recall what happened after that, but the next morning, her right leg felt like it had been burned in a fire. Huge, ornate script paraded down her thigh, proclaiming NOLI TANGERE. Hands off in Latin. On her calf, in smaller letters encircled by a red heart, the message PROPERTY OF ANTHONY G. WATSON.

She did her best to forget the whole incident, but it was hard not to look at that message, especially in the summertime.

Tony went off to his new life the day after the party, and Alexandra never saw him again. She kept telling herself that was a good thing. But sometimes she would dream about him, and that would start her thinking. Was he a hero? Did he get killed or wounded? Was he still in the army, or had he moved on to other things? She imagined his civilian life with a dowdy wife and six kids, too much mortgage, too many prescriptions, PTSD.

The phone keeps ringing and ringing. It pauses for a merciful moment, only to start up again.

Her win is official now, multiple pictures taken, press releases, interviews. Though she is past the bloom of youth, she is a celebrity. There will be endless phone calls in the days to come. People knocking on her door with gadgets to sell, sob stories to recite, pleading for just a tiny bite of her lucrative lotto pie.

But this phone call is different. Could it be the summons of destiny?

Her tattoo is tingling.

She picks up the receiver and whispers hello.

"It's Tony," he says, jauntily, as if they had parted just the day before. "On your doorstep. I've come to claim my prize."

She sets the receiver down and considers her options. Should she tell him to buzz off in a gentle way, tell him about a mythical boyfriend who will make an honest woman for her in a few months?