Losing Donald

“Dammit,” he said crumpling up a ticket and throwing it into the corner pile. He turned to me and said, “Give me that,” and snatched the ticket from my hand. His fingernails were tinted silver.    “Go ahead. I already checked the numbers,” I said.      His eyes were about to dart back and forth between the ticket and the iPad.      “Remember how much fun this used to be when did this together?” I asked leaning back into the couch.      “Pssh,” he said. His eyes averted. “We have a