Blind hearts-ManxMan-boyxboy

Blind hearts

The casino was a riot of iniquity: laughing, tinkling, groaning, drinking, and then the zings of slots machines and the riffling of cards. At the poker table blessed with light and the shine of a perky dealer, three men were hard and dim over their duo of cards.

It was nine p.m., and the pot stood at four thousand dollars. The dealer turned the fourth street.

At the early position, a player twirled a chip with his left fingers against the velvet-lined table. A triangular patch of chest hair peeked from the opening of his Hawaiian shirt. Between the silvery-blue shades hiding his eyes and the tumbler touching his lips, no expression is evident on his face.

His fingers began to move four chips towards to the pile of chips for the pot, but the first player clockwise from the dealer spoke up, “Sorry, I never got your name.”

The fingers slackened over the green felt of the table. “Chris,” he put down his tumbler, “you, Alex right?”

“You remember mine … now I feel bad.” Chris shrugged, but tiredness still crinkled his eyes.

“Don’t sweat it, Kiddo. I’m good with names and faces.” Stalagmite teeth hinted from behind the slight smile.

“When I do win the pot, I’ll be sure to thank you with a blowjob.”

Chris’s lips collapsed into a frown.

“I raise,” Chris said, words and actions like ice blocks.

Alex smiled but ended with an irrepressible yawn. He stretched out his arms up into the air, bone layered over bone; exhaustion would seem to thread upwards to the coffered ceiling. His smooth cheeks were flushed with some color, and his eyes livened with the polished whiteness of dolomites.

Alex, lips holding back a smile, motioned to the second player. “We’ve been playing for what eight hours now? And I never did catch your name.”

“Because you’re an idiot, that’s why,” Chris interrupted.

Alex popped back, not fazed by the affront, while the second player matched the bet without comment. The long hours had yet to mark him. His mouth was just as firm, his cheeks just as rough and lax with pockmarks and the eyes, pointed and hoary.

A school of women shambled across the floor like a school of strutting geese. Amid their squawking and squealing about how not amazing the fondue had been, the second player deigned to return Alex’s amiable stare.

He replied, with an accent thick and gunky, “Dimov, Dimov Krym.”

Alex nodded to himself approvingly. “Russian, I like it.”

“Ukrainian.”

“Same thing.”

“Blowhards think like that all the time.”

Tense but intrigued, Alex bit his lower lip. “I’m just a stupid American. Africa is one giant country. Afghanistan, Turkmenistan and whatever-the fuck-istan is all Mother Russia.”

“Idiot, speak for yourself.” Chris’s face was a desert map of red and pink.

The dealer cautioned, “Gentlemen…”

Alex played with a chip and grimaced over the community cards. “I prefer being an idiot. I think it’s less arrogant than being a blowhard. What do you think, Dimov?

Dimov turned modestly toward the black and glittery dealer and chuckled.

“There!” Alex said in wonderment, “It must be his lucky night.”