Blackjack

The cracked polyester of the stool. The creak, so slight, so defeated. The broken dreams of former occupants, soaked into the fabric, or the stool itself objecting to bearing witness again. The pushpin leather. The concentric circles, distinguished by their width, rings in a tree that grew with the hot streaks. The clink of three ice cubes – three, three, only lucky numbers for lucky drinks – against the brittle glass. The unsteady hand. The drop, a single drop of golden liquor, now an unfinished varnish on that over-stuffed leather. The beading sweat, slick against the glass. The failing A/C to blame.

The unsteady hands. The signal to the dealer. The crisp note, the note, unseen in the light for who knows how long, the gift of some faceless ATM. The last note; the last chance. The crinkle as it changes hands, reluctance nearly tightens the grip. The bill floats for a second, risks becoming last chance to none. The deposit. The exchange, one small stack, one fortune, one famine. The static attraction of felt to chip. The greedy desire to each face to rest on the green, all painted with precociousness. The riffle, proclaiming with a faint zip the meager amount. The ceramic cling, or was it common sense? The stronger pull to return to the center of the Universe. The thrill.

The beading sweat, the forehead now, no amount of A/C could abate. The push. The little town, untidy, stacked up and corralled. The last call. The little voice. The urge to sweep away the last tokens of a life lived and head towards the light. The thrill. The other little voice. The thought of doubling what little there is.

The first round. The sweep of the ark draws near. The unsteady hands. The look. The strike of the clock. The swoop. The landing. The nervous glance. The spade. The royalty. The scepter, not the sword. The smallest of sighs. The chest draws tighter. The ark continues. The clock strikes twelve. The twin staring back. The one eyed bandit. The doubt. The last leg. The fading hope. The ark begins again. The second round. The chest draws tighter. The unsteady hands. The creak of the chair, the lean forward, the can’t bear to look. The ark sweeps nearer. The chest draws tighter still. The silent pleas. The furrowed brow. The promise that this will be the last time.

The card falls.