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By the time Nicky comes back with their drinks, Joe’s engaged in a conversation with the only other person at the table. She’s a pretty woman, mid-30s, average build and height, small dimple on her left cheek, and recently divorced if the untanned band on her finger is to be trusted. She’s laughing at everything Joe is saying, tucking her hair behind her ears every few seconds and Nicky knows that it’s not because she has a nervous tick. From the relaxed set of Joe’s shoulder, Nicky doesn’t think he’s caught on yet. Joe can be rather dense at times.
Nicky sets their drinks on the table as he slides into the empty seat on Joe’s right. “Long Island, extra rum.”
Joe turns to him with a bright smile. “Thanks! Nicky, this is Dianne. She’s a product manager at Google. Isn’t that amazing? Dianne, this is my husband Nicky.”
And there it is.
Dianne quickly lets go of her hair, covering her burning ears; her smile is stiff and practiced as she extends a hand. “Dianne, pleasure to meet you.”
“Nicky, likewise.” Her handshake is firm and something like approval flashes through her eyes when Nicky does the same. How many men have tried to squeeze her hand to death? Or worse, gone limp, leaving her to awkwardly hold a dead hand? Nicky finds it sad that something as simple as a handshake already has him pegged as a decent man.
“So, how long have you two been married?” Dianne asks once she lets go, putting an open palm on the green felt table. She has 18 and the dealer has a four up. Joe busted before he even arrived with their drinks.
Nicky looks at Joe and sees the same amusement shining back at him. He turns back to Dianne. “A millennia. 910 years if we’re being exact.”
The dealer flips his first card, it’s a seven. He hits and it’s an eight. 19. He takes all the chips on the table, signaling the end of the round.
Dianne‘s face morphs into one of subtle confusion as they all place their bets. She’s curious, yes, but she didn’t make it this far in her career wearing her heart on her sleeve. The dealer starts off with Nicky, placing a two in front of him, an eight for Joe, and an ace for Dianne.
“We actually met two days ago in the wave pool at the MGM hotel. The love of my life literally crashed into me. Elbowed me real good too!” Joe says, rubbing his shoulder. “He made up for it by buying me a float tube. We took several laps in the lazy river and held hands the entire time.”
Jack for him, three for Joe, eight for Dianne, and a King for the dealer.
Nicky taps the table. “Sweetheart, you’re leaving out the best part of the day! He proposed right in front of the tigers,” Nicky says, his smile a touch dreamy. He covers Joe’s hand with his own as the dealer places a six on the table. He taps again and it’s a three! “This man, this master of words, this incurable romantic, poured his heart into that speech. It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.”
Joe squeezes his hand and signals hit with the other. Nine. Twenty; Joe stays. Dianne too. “We got married that night. Elvis officiant, of course, and no prenup, so we’re both all in.” Even the dealer is trying to hide his incredulity as he flips his card, four, and places one more card down for himself, a nine. 23; bust. He’s doing a much better job than Dianne, or maybe he’s used to a certain amount of crazy and this is only slightly above average for him.
Dianne has that look of regret every single person who has ever asked them how long they’ve been together get. It’s a very distinctive look that’s quite amusing and definitely why they keep this tradition alive.
If Dianne’s smile was forced earlier, then this one is made of pure will-power. “Romantic indeed,” she agrees, carefully avoiding their gaze as she stacks her chips again.
They play several more hands in relative silence. Dianne buys them in for one round, “Wedding gift,” she insists, “This is also my homophobic ex-husband’s money.” It’s hard to say no after that.
The night ends two hours later when Dianne wants to hit the poker tables. “You guys are going to last,” she says with utmost confidence, throwing several chips onto the table. “Good luck.”
“You too,” both of them parrot back.
“She was nice,” Joe says and Nicky hums in agreement. “I think she was flirting with the dealer earlier.”
The look both him and the dealer shoot Joe could make Einstein flush with embarrassment. Joe, his dear, sweet, oblivious, dense husband, puts two fingers on the table, splitting his hand, none the wiser.