Wager, by Gretchen Cion

​Wager

973, though tidy in appearance, looked like she had seen some shit. Three deep crevices carved hard across her forehead. Purple half-moons pulsed under her eyes. Her nails gnawed by the weight that brought her here. As she paced the 7 x 7 light blue papered room, her gaze was pulled upward toward the speaker in the corner. She blinked. Then blinked again. She pressed her blue cotton shirt down, tucking it into her jeans momentarily, then untucking it. 

I flipped to 973’s profile page, scanned her headshot. Crow’s feet: 24. Age: 46. I studied 973 through the two-way mirror like I would look upon a Degas or Kusama, head tilted, eyes narrowed trying to discern what this piece held. My phone pinged along with the phones belonging to the forty or so people in this room.  “How much will you wager?” the box asked followed by a request for my prediction on how many sheets of paper the woman would expel onto the floor. An animated depiction of the forthcoming sheets to be purged from 973’s mouth, strutted across my screen. Bubble gum pink and orange rectangles, bounced from side to side, beckoning me to choose wisely. 
I needed this win, lest I end up on the other side. I looked up from my phone and back to 973, who was oblivious to the bystanders lurking behind the mirror; oblivious to the betting taking place. I pressed my nose up against the window attempting a finer, more analytical look. Her breathing was shallow. She shook her left hand, followed by her right, then wrung them out together like one might a towel. Uncertainty settled on her brow, just as the speaker croaked, directing her to drop to the floor on all fours. 

As she assumed the position, my phone flashed with a notice “last call for wagers.” The twentysomething man to my right selected 62 and I couldn’t help but scoff. Obviously, a newcomer. I opted for a high number, 881, and felt a ping of guilt for wishing 973 ill archives. Just a ping.

The lights in our room flickered, a signal that the game was about to begin. The hands and calves of 973 sank six inches through the floor where the subject’s appendages were cuffed out of view; the lock of the cuffs abrupt and loud. I sat back down on the bench, clenching the metal underneath me as 973 took a deep breath in, as ordered. Three bells, three taps to the side of a Tibetan singing bowl, guided her from inhale, hold and release. We the watchers mimicked the breath across our bleachers, a silent batch of forty fans doing the wave on game day. 

The initial gag was a scratchy and futile choke as the papers, though thin and small, did have a distance to travel. I swallowed hard, aware of my own bile of the rise. A second heave produced one orange tab of paper, followed by a visual representation of the memory on our glass. A man yelling, finger jabbing from above appeared then disappeared. My phone pinged with a flashy “1!” on the tally counter. Eight hundred and eighty to go. I tightened my grip on the bleachers, and eyed my neighbors who leaned forward, glued to 973. We waited. Lone tabs spit out, one by one. Stills of taunts and slaps and grabs appeared on the glass. Bursts of tragic, muted fireworks. The body of 973 dropped as if lowered by a sudden push. Then, 973 lunged forward, pausing in a gasp before a ticker tape parade of pink and orange erupted from her mouth. I sat back and watched the tally number rise. 
 
Gretchen Cion

Gretchen Cion is a multi-genre writer and filmmaker with an MFA from SFSU. Her work has appeared in Points in Case, The Brevity Blog, Sky Island Journal, and elsewhere. Her short film, "Full Crow," was a Semifinalist at the Boden International Film Festival. Gretchen is a 2026 Erma Bombeck Humorist-in-Residence. She teaches at Berkeley City College.