Nowhere In Particular // H.S.

Fourteen: Bingo Was His Name-o

"B-12," the old man calls the number over the microphone, the sound squeaking with age and overuse. He uses his pointer finger to push his glasses up his nose before repeating the number with his monotone voice. "B-12"

"Dammit," Harry slams his fist on the table, shaking the rickety legs, and earning a heavy glare from an old lady with large gold earrings to the right of us. "I have a B-2, two B-10's, four B-4's and a B-11 but not a B-12. It's like the world is trying to punish me, Greta... teasing me with its almost promising ways before ripping my dreams out in front of my eyes."

I laugh at Harry's dramatic rant as he stares at me with eyes filled with pain, pain caused by a bingo game in an old gym filled with a large population of adults over the age of 65. He raises his eyebrows at me, not nearly as amused as I am, and then huffs out when I don't give him any sympathy.

"Do you have a B-12?" he turns toward me again after scanning his sheets once more. "Maybe the bingo gods won't be assholes to the both of us."

"Don't blame the bingo gods on this one," I shake my head quickly, moving my finger over my single sheet of paper, scanning the B section. "This is obviously a game rooted in skill... no luck to it what so ever," I smile to myself. The sarcastic words only irking Harry more.

"You're loving this," he sticks his tongue out at me. "Don't even lie."

I roll my eyes at him as he smirks back at me, his bingo charts crowding into my space.

When we first came across this place, walking in the small washed up town our previous night had been spent in, I almost didn't think it was real. Harry said something about joining the crowds of elderly people, determined to beat them at their own game, and at the moment I didn't actually think he was serious. Five minutes later though, he was paying for the max amount of sheets they would allow.

Now with around twenty half-filled bingo sheets sprawled out in front of us, he looks determined to use the dotter in every possible square. I stare at my single sheet again, laughing quietly to myself. Harry's competitiveness in the simple game has sparked interest in the people around us. He's gained more than few enemies that retaliate with glares every time he cheers about a number being called that he actually has.

I find it hilarious because Harry's charm is usually a winner with people, especially when it comes to gray haired women, but the majority of them are not feeling his sparkling eyes and wide smile as he stamps off number after number. Either they love him, like the lady sitting directly next to us, or they despise him and his beginners luck.

"So," he whispers with his eyes still on his paper. "Any luck? Did you find a B-12?"

"Sorry to disappoint," I shake my head. "But I cannot give any good news."

"You were my last hope," he cries out, still maintaining the whisper but grabbing onto my arm and shaking me slightly. "See Glenda over there," he nods his head to the table in front of us. "Old hag has three B-12's, I watched her stamp them. She gave me the stink eye too... I think she's trying to send a message. Doesn't scare me, I could take her, but her satisfaction in it is driving me up the wall."

"Harry!" I push him away from me, his chin no longer on the top of my shoulder as he whispers theories of the occupants of this room. "Do not call that lady an old hag," I shake my head at him, my voice surprised at his choice of words. "Besides, how do you know her name is Glenda?"

"She looks like a Glenda," he stares her down, his voice low and rough. "And I apologize," he smiles toward me, switching faces to his normal sweet eyes. "I let my determination to win overcome me. Calling a potentially sweet lady an old hag isn't kind."