Small cafe sells magazines, tobac, & racing bets. Black man with vitiligo sits at the bar front of the keeper who has a frothing lisp. People pass in their tickets for their few winnings and steam blows into milk at the espresso machine - Monsieur, mon earnings s'il vous plait. The trash bin is nearly full, mostly crumpled bets.
Monday's paper spreads across a table with horse rankings. The man with the paper hunches over the numbers, weighs the coins in his left hand, then fiddles through them with his right index, middle, & thumb. He steps away, clanking the bits between his fingers. Returns, hand in pocket, not as heavy now as he takes his seat, considers his bet, and looks to the TV for his next fortune.
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