POKER

“POKER”

The air in the Amalfi Lounge was always heavy, not with smoke or perfume, but with unspoken wagers and the suffocating weight of desperation. It wasn’t just a casino, it was a cathedral for those praying. Among them sat Lucien, draped in a black suit that once fit him like conviction but now clung with the uncertainty.

The room’s low lighting, interspersed with shuffling decks and harsh curses, barely penetrated the cathedral silence within him. His fingers trembled slightly as he examined his hand, three mismatched cards that felt less like possibilities and more like accusations. Across the table, faceless opponents masked in shadows flicked chips with surgical precision, indifferent to the unraveling occurring behind his eyes.

Lucien wasn’t here for the money. He had long since learned that fortune was a mistress loyal to no one. He was here for an answer. A pattern. Some logic behind the erratic rhythm of his life, a life filled with seemingly disconnected events that led to hollow victories and even hollower losses.

The seat to his right, once occupied by his brother, remained conspicuously vacant, an absence that had grown louder with each hand played. It had been two years since Julian folded for good—walked into a storm and never returned. No note. No trace. Just a voicemail left unread: a monologue that Lucien had memorized but never dared believe.

Until tonight.

As if called by memory or madness, Lucien pressed play on the old recording while staring into his failing hand, and his brother’s voice filled the void.

“I don’t know the answer, brother. If it makes you feel any lighter—know this: every human is choosing the best decision available to them. It is woven into the fabric of our biology, hard-coded into our DNA. You too must play the best hand you have—whatever it may be. And if that hand is nothing but a scattered mockery of fortune, then at least you can declare honestly: my hand was shitty.

Don’t carry the guilt. Blame the hand. Say ‘fuck it,’ fold it, and wait. Wait for your next hand.

Perhaps your entire poker night—your whole damn life—is just a cruel string of busted draws. Even so, you are not the sum of your cards.

If that’s the case—or if it becomes the case—then the only redemption you’re offered is this: Be grateful that you stayed at the table. Be grateful for the thrill, even if the company surrounding you was vile, shallow, or unbearable.

That, brother, is the only way to survive with peace in this godless game.

Make peace with the cards. Make peace with the others. Make peace with the night. Make peace with the game.

And motherfucker, learn to bluff.”

Lucien stared at his cards one last time, then placed them facedown. With a nod to no one in particular, he stood up and walked away, the weight on his shoulders strangely lighter.

Not because the game had ended.

But because, finally, he understood.