Those glorious receipts.

“Would you like a receipt madam.” He asks, you-are-a-fucking-idiot-if-you-say-no tone.

“Um.  Yes please.”

“Okay.  One moment, madam.”  Commence awkward smiles as the too-old-for-the-really-fancy-aromatherapy-lemongrass smelling fitness center lobby mimeographs me my own copy (he has his own).

“Ah, here you are madam.” He almost whispers this as he presents it to me with both hands, the long way, as if he is handing me one of the dead sea scrolls: I almost don’t feel worthy of this artifact.

Careful the wind didn’t catch it on the way out the door, on the way to the pool, I felt like I was about to take my seat at the right hand of the father.  Ticket to paradise.

Lined up the corners just like we used to do with the American flag at Girl Scout camp; I will also not let this touch the ground.

I put it in my book next to the other one; know when I get home I might lay out all three side by side: representations of the price someone young-ish paid for silence.

There is a big-ticket price to pay to go from just outside heaven into actual heaven; it is important to have the documentation to prove that you have done so.

Gravitas: the word in my head that day as I read The Long Experience of Love, gift from Jevin when I left.  Some things shouldn’t be taken lightly.  Got it.