Blind hearts-ManxMan-boyxboy

Blind hearts

“Are you going to play or something?” Chris demanded.

“The idiot needs to think first. Luck doesn’t seem to be on my side today.”

“That remains to be seen,” replied Dimov.

“Ooh, you’re looking forward to my blowjobs. I should think harder.”

“I might, but my wife won’t like it.”

“So you find another. Some women like to watch,” Alex said.

“Why would I marry her then?”

“Can we get on with this?” Chris pleaded.

“I think I’m entitled to negotiate with the kind and polite Mr. Krym from … Russia,” Alex said.

Dimov glared fully and furiously at Alex, who was licking his lips in an evident anticipation of something. A sure win, a childish dare, a befuddled prattle of boy on the brink of a loss? No one had answers, and answers could not be divined, and the minutes built up a tense cage of locked stares.

Alex broke away, tossed his chip in the air, caught with a twinkle in his eyes. “I call.”

“All your yammering for calling?” Chris guzzled from his tumbler, slammed the glass with a sandy exhale from his mouth. “We’ll see what you’re made off, Kiddo, I raise.”

Dimov called. Alex called as well. The dealer turned the fifth street. Chris took a quick glance at the ace of diamonds, and raised. Dimov raised. Alex called.

It was back to Chris looking blearily over his dwindling ledge of chips. “Let’s get this baby into orbit. I raise.”

Dimov raised. Alex leaned back in his chair, moped over his modest mountain of chips, then with a resigned nod of the head, he said, “I raise.”

Chris’s face had sagged to a pale mush. The amount he would need to match Alex’s bet was more or less equal to the number of chips he had. He drank again, this time slowly. His little finger trembled against the table imperceptibly.

“Fold,” Chris announced manfully, and without pausing for the men to gesture sympathy, he huffed away towards the green tinkling fountain.

“Just you and me, now Mr. Russia,” Alex said. “For your wife’s sake, I hope I don’t win.”

Dimov said, “You sound more interested in … than winning …” he visually estimated the chips in the pot. “Winning seven thousand dollars.”

“Seven thousand three hundred dollars.”

Dimov mimed to himself in concession to his superior estimating skills. Alex added, more sultry than before, “Money can’t buy everything. You need to bargain for everything else.”

Dimov popped up at him, his lips tightening and bunching to the left. He turned to the dealer then it was show down.

Alex’s fingers tightened over his thin cards before revealing them. Dimov exhaled an exhausted breath and said, “You win,” then flipped over his cards. The dealer concurred.

Dimov extended his arm across to the table to shake Alex’s. “Congratulations.” Dimov’s tone managed to be warm and cordial; Alex managed to leave behind his bravado with a quivering smile.

“I’ll be enjoying this alone then?” Alex asked, searching.

Dimov’s hand was firm, and the handshake seemed to last longer than it should. But both men measured each other, and it would seem that the scales, where they may be, were found wanting, inadequate, amidst the gathering din of the hall.