toastrobot

smoke swirls above the table as the sound of playing cards snap at the shuffle. the dim light of the wagon wheel lamp above mixes the ghost smoke and casts an eerie glow around the room. it's dark outside the closed golden drapes and there are no sounds of the city to distract the players, save the pops and scratches of the victrola singing out louis armstrong and his hot seven while frying bacon in the background.
the shuffle of the cards complete, they are placed on the table. "somebody cut 'em" two hands reach for the deck at the same time. one, a man's, big and meaty and covered in dark hair, the other, smooth and slender, wears a silver charm bracelet. the man's hand beats her to it. "thin to win" he announces, and smiles as he cuts the cards in two uneven portions.
the dealer picks up the cut deck and begins to deal. the rhythm of the cards flying from the deck to each player is methodical and soothing. coffee cups are reached for and cigarettes returned to the ash tray. there is no worry at the table. and in fact for the two couples that sit here there are no drifting thoughts beyond the moment. the space they have created is comfortable and safe, and they will go on playing late into the night. though their children sleep upstairs and will awaken them early, and when the weekend is over they will all return to the routines they have created back home, for now they are oblivious. and in future days they will return to this space they have created again and again in memory. they will need it in difficult times and will work their minds to make it a reality again.