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He deals the cards as a meditation
Each card is loosed with a caged movement of the wrist. Each card is loosed with a secret. Precise. Exactly twice the beat of his pulse. Steady.
And those he plays never suspect
Rough hands. Honest hands. Calloused hands to whom the edges of each card stays silent, tells no story.
He doesn't play for the money he wins
All the money in all of his pockets, the clothes on his back, his body. The stakes here are shadows to past wagers.
He doesn't play for respect
Carven ice. He can feel them searching for a reflection of his cards. Opaque. They shift uncomfortably. Admiration. Grudging admiration. You cannot respect ice. You can only wait for it to melt.
He deals the cards to find the answer
He's seen the New Orleans tarot women and flashed a smile in professional courtesy. Written in the cards, written in the stars.
The sacred geometry of chance
Control the cards and they can't control you. Inhale. He uses his breath as camouflage. He palms an ace, third from the bottom of the deck. Lets the cards whisper in their reverent mathematics. Player. Playwright.
The hidden law of a probable outcome
Ace of clubs. Ace of spades. Ace of hearts. Jack of diamonds. King of spades. Dealer takes a winning edge.
The numbers lead a dance
The blow. The cut. The love. The gambling knave. The dark soldier. Dealer folds.
I know that the spades are swords of the soldier
A bet. A parry. Like a sword in his hand. Sharp. Like Nathan's words this morning.
I know that the clubs are weapons of war
His own reply had been heavy, blunt. It had left one of them bleeding.
I know that diamonds mean money for this art
Ante's up. Up. Maybe more than some can spare. It worries him, not the thought, but that he thinks it. It whispers. A chorus. A voice not his own.
But that's not the shape of my heart
One voice. Sharp, the knife's edge. Smooth, the knife's flat. Healing, deadly. Irresistible.
He may play the Jack of diamonds
He counts the cards the others hold. He flashes a quick grin, far from a tell, far from genuine. The rogue jostles forward, pushing the lawman back into a dark corner of his mind. Cold.
He may lay the Queen of spades
Smooth. Miss Recillos sashays by; he won't turn his head from the cards he holds. He registers though, the tray laden with whiskey, water, and milk. Six glasses.
He may conceal a king in his hand
Five. He imagines it was five, like the cards. Five.
While the memory of it fades
He won't turn his head.
And if I told you that I love you
He won't.
You'd maybe think there's something wrong
He'll feel Nathan's eyes on him if he raises. Accusing. Or worse, he won't feel them at all.
I'm not a man of too many faces
See your three, raise you two. He should call. Stone. In his mind, he tries to call out the lawman, coax him to the front. Bring him out proudly for Nathan to see.
The mask I wear is one
But the rogue hurts so much less. Ice. Carven with a smile.
Those who speak know nothing
"Hang on, now, JD..." Nathan. Warm. Not a trace of the disgust he'd heard this morning. His fault. He'd provoked him with the most condescending of comments. He'd just wanted to be seen. Heard. To make Nathan feel something. Anything.
And find out to their cost
Anger is passion. Pushing him away, pulling him closer. They both take contact. He doesn't know why it always seems like such a good idea. Afterwards, he's here and Nathan's there.
Those who curse their luck in too many places
Money. Family. Peace. His friends' hypocritical acceptance of his gambling skills only allow for one. He's given up hope of the last.
And those who smile are lost
The corners of his mouth twitch. Bitter. It's too late.
I know that the spades are swords of the soldier
He pushes another chip into the pot, conservative. His gun brushes softly against his arm. Cold. He remembers how he held it last night. Close.
I know that the clubs are weapons of war
His last resort. A running dialogue of witty repartee. Disarm.
I know that diamonds mean money for this art
He raises. Two opponents gruffly make their excuses. Satisfaction, as much that can bring. He raises again
But that's not the shape of my heart
Behind him, his friends have quieted. They're still there.
That's not the shape of my heart
They can wait. Wait. He just has to see if he holds a winning hand. He just has to see.