The Ticket

I slid my hand gently across the sheet and touched the warm shoulder. Waking her in the early morning is always a gamble. I think she is sort of like a fly sitting on the toilet seat waiting to get pissed off. And I usually don’t have any trouble making it happen.
“What the hell are you looking for?”
“My ticket.”
She mumbles between clenched teeth, “Check your pockets.”
“Right. I’m still in bed, too, and I’ve got a lot of pockets.”
I’m thinking; pajama pockets, pants pockets, shirt pockets, jacket pockets, coat pockets, mesh pockets for stuff I hope to lose and fur-lined pockets to keep my hands warm and hold stuff I care about. Front pockets, back pockets, side pockets some with flaps and some with buttons for added security.
Outside pockets, inside pockets, shallow pockets, deep pockets.
Think, think. What clothes was I wearing yesterday, the day before? Where was I the last time I held the ticket in my hand? Who said I had to have one to get up in the morning.
Does everyone have to have one or this is just what my mind tells me I need? Who in the hell said I had to have a ticket for the next day?
Cannot verify. Access denied.
All day long, no loose tickets in any of them. They are populated by an empty wallet, reading glasses, a dead cell phone, car keys, house keys, wadded up paper and half used tissues and paper towels to catch a runny nose, a sneeze or cover and uncontrollable bronchial wheezing and coughing, as needed, but. . . . no ticket.
By now, I can’t even remember what kind of ticket I was looking for. What color? Red, blue, yellow white, black, purple, mauve. A big one, a little one, I know I had to have one to get here.
Now I’ve spent the whole damn day looking for it in vain. I looked for the ticket to tomorrow in all the pockets of the past. If I can’t find it before I fall asleep, I may never get in tomorrow.
No tickee, no laundlee!
No ticket, no tomorrow.

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