At Least They're Committed

I’m shuffling cards when he walks in. I’ve been expecting him.

“Oh, are we playing a game?” he pulls off his ascot, I haven’t the heart to tell him they went out in the 70s, but then again, really, he probably already knows.

“No, I don’t play games,” I say. “I only speak in riddles and I’ve said too much.”

“Is there a difference between games and riddles?”

“Yes.” The cards float between my fingers and thumb, I arch the two halves and they come together as one. I’m good at this. “Riddles are a means of communication, games are a means of manipulation.”

“Oddly that makes sense . . . you’re troubled.”

I toss a card to him, one to me, one to him, until we each have seven. “I’ve given too much away and I’m going to have to start mixing things up, making shit up, blurring the lines because if there’s anything I hate it’s being obvious.”

He picks up his cards, “OK, makes sense . . . I’m sure you’re clever enough to pull that off. You’re good at that.”

“Heh, full house! On the first deal!”

He squints, “Four aces and three queens, I think in your world that wins out?”

“I don’t know. There are really no winners in this world, are there?”

“Ooooohkaaaay, you’re sounding a bit dark,” he says.

“Sorry, I just need to find something to look forward to, that’s all.”

He chuckles. “Go to bed, Fred.”

“Going.”