Tilt

The machine lit up like a small cathedral— chrome saints hopping under glass, the silver gospel of the pinball spinning wild between my hands. It was my birthday— twenty-one— and free beers rang up like prayers. Each flipper slap a hallelujah, each tilt shrugged off in neon glare. The hours blew away like cheap confetti. The undulating sidewalk tilted just before I did, and the keyhole danced just out of reach while my cat waited, unimpressed. I woke up hours later to my worried cat meowing and looking up at me. I leaned in close to reassure him— and showered his head with vomit, dismayed. He left his verdict in my shoes— a damp reminder, sharp and clear. Tail high, he walked away avenged, his conscience undisturbed by guilt. He eventually forgave me— as creatures wiser than us often do. I cleaned my shoes, drank far less beer, and never puked on my cat again.