Monmouth Racetrack, which proved to be better than me staying home and thinking about past textmessages and.. such. Instead, I did it on the move. We played the ponies, of course. I was scruffy, cold, full of Sunday-morning languidness. We played the ponies, and we played them well. I had decided that horse tracks were horrible things, until I won. The announcer was calling out to us, to our souls, our cores, the centers of our gambling hearts. "It's Post Time," he told me. Told us. Told himself. No one else seemed to be feeling what I was. They felt with their wallets, their adrenaline, their instinct. Move to the fence, move to the fence, watch for your number. In my case, start sneexing. Sneeze from post to finish, miss the gates, miss the turn, miss the finish. Jesus, Claire. Are you allergic to horses or something? "I don't know. It's possible. Everything is a probability in horse racing." "Yeah, I've read Seabiscuit," said manwithstroller passing by me, to his manwithstroller friend. Weekend dads, ice cream and pizza and ultimately goodbyes-until-next-time. And then I won. Fluke, chance, predestination. Number six, Fuego Maximo, second race. Two dollar bet, fifteen dollar payoff. Crisp five, crisp ten. I could see why people become addicted. I could see why people join the ASPCA.