The best poker player I know is black and incredibly thin. His face lights up when he’s excited, makes any kind of sound you can imagine or sometimes just lays down and shakes violently. He’s got access to all my friends but never contacts them, not unless I tell him to. But my friends contact me a lot through him. Unless of course, there is someone in particular I want to hear from.
He seems to know just when I’m totally bluffing. When I’m all in and all I have to stand on is a pair of two’s. He’s there. Completely silent. Motionless. He doesn’t even breathe. His face goes completely blank and if you were little crazy you just might think he was dead. He never gives himself away. And always with those damn buttons. Wearing buttons everyday for as long as I’ve known him. It’s like the neat rows of plastic buttons keep him completely straight laced – no sympathy, no emotion, just silence and a winning hand.
Sure, I win sometimes, but it seems when I really need the win I don’t get it. Those are the times I lose sleep over it. It’s like his stoic glaze completely imprecates me for the night. Cursed and befuddled I try to distract myself, but I can’t. He’s jinxed me. Bewitched me. Hexed me, tossed my optimism, hopes and happiness into a state of blight.
Somtimes I wish I never knew him. Other times, I’m glad he’s always around. Needless to say things probably won’t ever change between him and I so I better get used to it. Oh well, c’est la vie.