art by Jonathan Westbrook
"You're Heads," She Says. "You're Tails."
by M. Bennardo
As I peer from the window of the third-story lab in Bingham Building, I can just see the other guy crossing the rain-slicked cobblestones of the quad. He's hunched over, defeated. In shock, probably. He has no bags, but he's leaving forever. Everything he owns is on his back or in his pockets--a cheap suit, two hundred bucks, and a bus ticket to Topeka.
It's all because, a few minutes earlier, she studied the two of us--me and that other guy. Because she pulled out her magnifying glass and scrutinized every line of our bodies and faces, peered into our eyes, tapped our knees, checked how our hair met our scalps.
Then, after the inspection, she pointed to me and said, like she always does, "You're Heads." Then she pointed to the other guy and said, like she always does, "You're Tails."