Flash fiction exercises, Part 4

Here's Part 4. It comes to us from March of 2006. Gina and I had been dating for nine months at that point. We've been married nine months right now. That's kind of cool. This piece, however, is not. It's really weird. I've been to the horse track three or four times in my life, but, for some reason, I set this piece there. It doesn't feel finished but I am remembering that I ended it there for a reason. Not sure what that reason was now since it just sort of stops.

Looking back, it was advice I never should have taken. Honestly, looking back, it wasn't advice at all. It was a warning.

But, at the time, it just seemed like the ramblings of a disturbed man. He grabbed both of my arms in his massive hands and looked at me crazy-eyed and in an almost inaudible whisper said, "Six in six." I stared into his black eyes.

"Six in six, " he said again . "Six in six."

The third time he shouted it, let go of my arms and ran across the parking lot. The sixth race had a purse that was nearly a quarter of a million dollars, the biggest possible paycheck on a very average day at the track.

The sixth horse was named Month of Sundays and a modest long shot at 12-1. This had to be what he meant. Bet it all on Month of Sundays. Heck even the name was religious. If not religious at least it had the word Sunday in it. Not much of a sign but when your luck tank is running as dry as mine was at that time you'll take any coincidence and twist it into some sign that you're getting a little time in Heaven's spotlight.

I’d spent my entire morning asking for a sign. Some way to get behind fate's curtain and see all the winners before they raced. This had to be it. Month of Sundays and the crazy man in the parking lot telling me "Six in six." No doubt this was it.
"$100 on No. 6 to win."

The order of finish was Voltaire, County Line, and Burnt Sienna. Month of Sundays took nearly that long.