The Stamped Slip

I stepped off the yellow trolleybus at the corner stop and climbed the quiet stairs back to the apartment. By the entrance, I settled down on the low oak stool and worked the paper transit ticket from my jeans pocket. The onboard machine had stamped five purple digits along the cardstock edge, sharp and slightly damp. The slip had taken a stiff bend against my thigh during the ride. Bracing my knee, I pressed the flat rubber side of my boot heel over the fold and drew it smoothly from end to end. The crease yielded under the weight. The ticket rested entirely flat on the wood, neat and accounted for.