Meteorite
written by: Dmitry Berkut
With the edge of his fingernail, Tomás scraped the silver coating off a lottery ticket. He sat right by the road in a plastic chair, sipping pale beer from a tall glass. Eight in the morning. The table had probably been dragged out from the café the night before and left by the crossroads — just one, as if meant for him.
A police car stood across the street, lights spinning. There’d been a match last night. Tomás didn’t look at the officers. He paid no attention to the couple in the window of the bakery opposite — the woman writing in a notebook, the man drinking coffee, bent over his phone, as if shut away in his own morning. Tomás’s eyes stayed fixed on the numbers appearing from under the silver dust.
In the night, something had woken him. The room had suddenly filled with light, as if someone had switched on every streetlamp at once. Raquel had rolled over, mumbling that he’d forgotten to draw the curtains again. But the curtains were closed. The light had come through them, through the walls, through everything. Then darkness. The clock on the nightstand read 3:47.
The first number — four. Tomás took a sip of beer. The foam settled, leaving a sticky ring on his moustache. In his pocket were three more tickets, bought after the match. It had seemed like a good idea then. His team had won 2–1, the streets were full of singing, and the lottery kiosk was still open. The old man selling tickets had said, “Today’s your day, my friend.”
The second number — zero. The man in the bakery put down his phone and glanced out the window. Their eyes met for a second. Probably a tourist. Or someone who’d moved here in the past few years. Porto had plenty of those now. Tomás looked away.
The morning news had mentioned a meteorite. It had passed over the city, lighting everything up for a few seconds. The newsreader smiled as she said it, as if it were good news.
Tomás thought it must have been some kind of sign. Good or bad — who knew. Just a sign. Strange that he’d been awake at that exact moment. Then again, who could say.
The third number — seven. He stopped scraping and looked at the unopened rows. Nothing in this one. His nail slipped, leaving a patch half-covered. The back of his head ached a little — maybe from last night’s drinks. Super Bock with friends after the match. Or from that strange light in the night. Who knew.
A woman passed by with a dog. Small enough to fit in a handbag. It sniffed the leg of his chair before the owner pulled it along. A policeman waved a car through. The lights kept flashing, though there’d been no accident. They just sat there, blinking in the morning quiet. Like that night-time light — without cause, without explanation.
Tomás finished his beer, tasting the bitterness on his tongue. He folded the half-scratched ticket and slid it into his pocket with the rest. Four little meteorites, waiting for their moment. Then he took out two euros and fifty cents, left them on the table. His back was stiff from sitting on hard plastic.
The woman in the bakery window was still with her notebook. Tomás wondered if she was writing about him. Or maybe just making notes about her companion, the one always on his phone, as if shut away in his own morning. The man stared out the window, drumming his fingers on the table.
Tomás stood up. Walked home unhurriedly. The tickets rustled in his pocket. Four little meteorites, waiting for their moment.
At home, Raquel would be in the kitchen, wearing the floral robe she’d had for five years. She’d ask if he’d won anything. He’d tell her he hadn’t checked them all. She’d shake her head, the way she always did, and go back to her coffee. “You should be looking for a job instead,” she’d say without looking up. And maybe that night, another meteorite would pass overhead. Or maybe not. In the end, what did it matter.
Tomorrow morning, the table would still be there at the crossroads.
