Last credit
Two regulars, one machine, and the hour before the arcade turns its screens off.
- Where
- An arcade, Osaka
- When
- What lit it
- The screens of the cabinets
- Reading
- 1 minute
At eleven the arcade dims the ceiling and leaves the screens on. For an hour the room is lit only by the games, each in its own colour.
The attendant does a last round with a cloth, wiping the buttons, and knows everyone who is still there by the game they play rather than by name.
They play the same machine every week, one player each, and have never finished it. They do not want to; the last level is said to be dull.
We could finish it. We just like it better when it is still ahead of us.
The machine is older than both of them. Its screen has a shadow burnt into it, the score of someone from long ago, and they play through it without seeing it any more.
At twenty to twelve they stopped for the photo, still in the glow of the continue screen, the countdown running behind them from nine.
When the screens go dark they stay a minute longer in the violet the cabinets leave behind, and then walk home by the light of the street.
Photo: Pexels
