new.”
There it was again. Another supremely
effective Ty Walker compliment.
My fingers pressed deeper into the
table.
Then I asked, “Do you lose concentration
when a woman you want is in the room?”
“I hope not or tonight we’re fucked.”
And there it was again. My fingertips slid
out and my palm pressed into the table.
That was when he asked, “We gonna go or you
wanna stare at me some more?”
I sucked in breath. Then I walked to him. He
stood where he was and watched. When I made it to him, I got close,
tipped my head way back and put my hand flat on wall of his
chest.
“All right, hubby, let’s go kick some poker
ass.”
He stared down at me. Then he shook his
head.
Then he muttered, “Christ, you’re a
goof.”
Then he moved to my side, put his hand to my
back and propelled me to the door and since his hand was on me, I
was concentrating on it so I didn’t have a smartass retort to the
goof comment.
I just moved with my husband out the
door.
* * * * *
I learned a few things quickly after the
poker game began. First, if you weren’t playing it (which I never
had so maybe even if you were, I wouldn’t know), poker was
mind-numbingly boring. Second, Ty was not as good as he thought he
was.
This game was like one of those games you
saw in movies. I knew this when we didn’t go down to the gambling
floors, we went up to the top floor. I also knew this because two
men in dark suits were standing outside the double doors at the end
of the hall we walked through to get into the game. Further, I knew
this because when we entered, every character from a movie was
there. The oldish Texan with a Stetson and a big-haired blond in
strapless, clingy, cut up to there gold lamé dripping off his arm. Two men in ill-fitting but
nevertheless expensive suits (in other words, it was time to lay
off the carbs and that time was about six months ago) that looked
like they could easily be made men in the Mafia. A slender,
handsome man in an expensive suit that did fit him well, very well, and I thought there was a
good chance he was a secret agent. And a swarthy man chomping a
cigar, sporting a beer gut fit for two and probably being on
vacation from his oppressive rule of some small, South American
country. Lastly, I knew this was like those poker games from the
movies because there was a bar, with bartender, and the casino had
provided a black vested, white shirt, black bowtie wearing dealer
and a swish poker table with all its accoutrement.
The dealer eyed me and Blondie, had a quiet
word with Ty and the Texan and then Ty came to me and told me I was
relegated to the couch against the back wall.
Then he bent his head, lips to my ear and
whispered, “Cross your legs. Often.”
Then he went to a chair at the table where
big piles of multi-colored chips were sitting.
I sat, the bartender got me a French martini
after I ordered it (and I did this because of my surroundings, not
that I ever drank one – I drank beer – it just popped into my head
and sounded like something a woman wearing a slinky dress who was
relegated to a couch during a testosterone only poker game would
drink and I found out it tasted really good).
Then, for over an hour, I sipped my (two)
French martinis, crossed and uncrossed my legs frequently but not
frequently enough to seem silly (like Blondie was fidgeting at my
side, making me wonder if she might have a movement disorder),
tried not to fall asleep and watched with increasing alarm (the
only thing that kept me from falling asleep) as Ty’s piles
dwindled.
Twice, he’d reached into his inside suit
pocket, thrown bills on the table that were snatched up by the
dealer faster than you could blink and new chips were stacked at
his place. Twice, those stacks shrunk.
He had two chips in front of him that I was
staring at in a vain effort to make them multiply spontaneously and
the mound of chips in the middle was about three times larger than
any other game.
It was then I felt
There it was again. Another supremely
effective Ty Walker compliment.
My fingers pressed deeper into the
table.
Then I asked, “Do you lose concentration
when a woman you want is in the room?”
“I hope not or tonight we’re fucked.”
And there it was again. My fingertips slid
out and my palm pressed into the table.
That was when he asked, “We gonna go or you
wanna stare at me some more?”
I sucked in breath. Then I walked to him. He
stood where he was and watched. When I made it to him, I got close,
tipped my head way back and put my hand flat on wall of his
chest.
“All right, hubby, let’s go kick some poker
ass.”
He stared down at me. Then he shook his
head.
Then he muttered, “Christ, you’re a
goof.”
Then he moved to my side, put his hand to my
back and propelled me to the door and since his hand was on me, I
was concentrating on it so I didn’t have a smartass retort to the
goof comment.
I just moved with my husband out the
door.
* * * * *
I learned a few things quickly after the
poker game began. First, if you weren’t playing it (which I never
had so maybe even if you were, I wouldn’t know), poker was
mind-numbingly boring. Second, Ty was not as good as he thought he
was.
This game was like one of those games you
saw in movies. I knew this when we didn’t go down to the gambling
floors, we went up to the top floor. I also knew this because two
men in dark suits were standing outside the double doors at the end
of the hall we walked through to get into the game. Further, I knew
this because when we entered, every character from a movie was
there. The oldish Texan with a Stetson and a big-haired blond in
strapless, clingy, cut up to there gold lamé dripping off his arm. Two men in ill-fitting but
nevertheless expensive suits (in other words, it was time to lay
off the carbs and that time was about six months ago) that looked
like they could easily be made men in the Mafia. A slender,
handsome man in an expensive suit that did fit him well, very well, and I thought there was a
good chance he was a secret agent. And a swarthy man chomping a
cigar, sporting a beer gut fit for two and probably being on
vacation from his oppressive rule of some small, South American
country. Lastly, I knew this was like those poker games from the
movies because there was a bar, with bartender, and the casino had
provided a black vested, white shirt, black bowtie wearing dealer
and a swish poker table with all its accoutrement.
The dealer eyed me and Blondie, had a quiet
word with Ty and the Texan and then Ty came to me and told me I was
relegated to the couch against the back wall.
Then he bent his head, lips to my ear and
whispered, “Cross your legs. Often.”
Then he went to a chair at the table where
big piles of multi-colored chips were sitting.
I sat, the bartender got me a French martini
after I ordered it (and I did this because of my surroundings, not
that I ever drank one – I drank beer – it just popped into my head
and sounded like something a woman wearing a slinky dress who was
relegated to a couch during a testosterone only poker game would
drink and I found out it tasted really good).
Then, for over an hour, I sipped my (two)
French martinis, crossed and uncrossed my legs frequently but not
frequently enough to seem silly (like Blondie was fidgeting at my
side, making me wonder if she might have a movement disorder),
tried not to fall asleep and watched with increasing alarm (the
only thing that kept me from falling asleep) as Ty’s piles
dwindled.
Twice, he’d reached into his inside suit
pocket, thrown bills on the table that were snatched up by the
dealer faster than you could blink and new chips were stacked at
his place. Twice, those stacks shrunk.
He had two chips in front of him that I was
staring at in a vain effort to make them multiply spontaneously and
the mound of chips in the middle was about three times larger than
any other game.
It was then I felt
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