〈 Last All-In 〉

If you keep fighting until you win, you win in the end. I have a good feeling the moment I take one more card. I lift the corner and look. Everything goes black at once. I fix my eyes on an imaginary point so my pupils will not shake. I let all force drain from my face. Send it down into my toes instead, press them hard against the soles of my shoes. Breathe with my stomach. Slowly. Calmly. Out. When my sight comes back, I sweep over the other eyes. Professionals, all of them. Eyes reflecting nothing but me. One of them goes all in, and his left eyelid gives a tiny tremor. Fear, an act, or simply the proper muscle response of a man going all in— the moment I try to tell the difference, I am the one who gets trapped. So I let it go. I count only the odds and admit defeat. There is always another round. Pretending to step out for air, I mortgage the last house I have left and refill my stack. Enough to fight through the night again.

A thin white seam of dawn begins leaking under the heavy blackout curtains. By then everyone should be tired enough. Some of them start to show it. Maybe an act. But the timing is good. I let out the words I have been saving. Low and quiet. “All in.” Every eye studies mine. I release the tension from my toes, leave just a little in the muscles of my neck and face. I let my eyes tremble freely. They see it. They think. No one stays tired once someone goes all in. One by one, carefully, they follow. All in. I win big. I return home. Cold inside. Only the family photograph hanging on the marble wall feels a little warm. I smile along with them. I must be tired. I do not even notice myself smiling. But I avoid. All eight eyes. I turn my back. Walk to the door. Push my toes deep into the tips of my shoes. Step outside. Again. I must win.