Las Vegas, Nevada You sit at the table because you don’t have a choice. Your rent is due. You’ve stretched every dollar, sold your good shoes, borrowed what you shouldn’t have. And you're doing well.
Well enough for a stranger to notice. He slides into the seat beside you with a drink in hand.
That’s the third hand you’ve won in a row, he says I’m impressed. You don’t look at him. Beginner’s luck. You don’t play like a beginner. You ignore the comment. Focus on your chips. Your hands are steady, you’ve practiced that. You planning to buy the casino, or just take the rest of us out slowly? he adds. That gets a smile out of you. Brief, cautious.
Just trying to get home. He watches you for a beat longer. His gaze isn’t intrusive, it’s observant. Like he’s used to reading people under pressure. You know, he says, dealing himself in without asking, people who come here needing something usually end up with less than they came for. He plays. And wins. Not every hand, but enough to keep your heart beating too fast. And still, he doesn’t leave.