Validated

A parking stub fell from a paperback

I don't remember buying—

slipped between pages 84 and 85.

November 12th. 4:47 PM. $6.00.

The thermal ink almost lavender.

Ten years, and I've never set it down

in language. The room key was thrown away

the same night. The hotel's name

dissolved. But the stub persisted—

precise about the garage,

mute about the rest.

The radiator clanked against the wall.

The sheet pulled to her collarbone.

A broken slat striped the bed

with light and neither of us

said the word for what

we were dismantling.

4:47: wet-haired, I walked out

into November sun so hard

it felt jurisdictional—

like being caught mid-sentence

in a statement I still

believe was true.

The steering wheel was cold.

The seatbelt clicked shut.

She'd said drive safe,

as if the afternoon had a Tuesday

waiting after it,

an ordinary sequence.

$6.00 for three hours.

The stub on my desk,

its faded numbers holding

what the numbers were never

asked to hold. A receipt

for the wrong event—precise

about everything

except what happened.