Games

Some relationships are built on love and trust. Ours was a house of cards, made with a deck stolen from The Mirage. You can still see the holes punched through. Those cards are all I’ve got left of you, and when I shuffle them I can still hear you placing your bets, smell the Cool Water evaporating off your neck, see you seducing me with that James Bond smile. In Monte Carlo, playing blackjack; in Vegas, feeding the slot machines; in every reservation casino, taking Native rent money; and with every truck-stop lottery bet, I remember you. It was all just a game – to both of us in different, cruel ways.

image: Flickr user thp365

This terrible thought occurred to me as I sped down the highway, foot to the floor, accelerator beneath. I was running from everything I could escape on four wheels with only a passport and a rolling suitcase’s handle in my grasp. If I could have, I would have fled myself as well; to acquire some objective distance. Could I trust myself any more than I could you? Surely I had played each game at which I had accused you of beating me. Fair? Hardly. But then, all games allow for cheats and hacks. There are always loopholes built right in. Nothing is ever worded precisely enough to keep the devious and the dangerous from taking advantage. Even our language games ensnare us, one way or another. Certainly.

Our relationship was, of course, just another game. The make-you-love-me-then-cut-you-loose-and-let-you-fall-hard game. The game where I wrapped you around my little finger and then crushed you in my fist. The one where I led you on until I grew tired, then flung you out the window of my speeding Aston Martin like a used condom – to hell with the accident caused when you hit the windshield of the Mercedes behind me.

But that was never really true, not with you and me, was it? I was always honest with you. Too honest, perhaps – giving it all away. My poker face is terrible. Everyone can spot my tell. But even when I knew I should fold my hand, cut my losses and go, I kept hanging on to my cards. I was hoping you wouldn’t call my bluff. I thought maybe, despite the inevitable, I could make this game last forever. You always felt real to me, no matter how many lies you told. I never knew how deep the game went. Were you a secret agent or a double agent? Was that just a gun, or were you happy to see me? I always assumed it was mutual, but then again, I could never really trust myself, either. We were a couple of con artists, a real team. But when you lie to your partner, the jig is up. There are only so many casinos you can knock over before word gets around and you’re banned for life. From the whole damn circuit.

You promised you’d go straight. You rolled up the sleeves on your Italian suit and turned out the pockets of your linen pants. They asked for your snakeskin loafers, and you gave them up willingly. But you could still count cards, even stripped naked, and you could read faces like the palm of your hand. Your virtue was just another game, and the loopholes caught around your neck.

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Laura Roberts is the Editor of Black Heart.