Hearts and Spades

My hands pass, not yours. Yours are clasped across the table, like the others, one finger tapping. My hands pass each other softly, swiftly; deftly, passing the cards about the deck.
Shuffling.
Your finger keeps on tapping, and I find I move the cards in time to your beat, following them with my eyes, as do you – as do you all – staring fixedly; guessing, judging.
And I pass them round and round in my hands for an eternity, playing it out over and over again in my head, like a slideshow, over and over. I see the pictures flash, not daring to close my eyes, and I see you, a single tear in your eye, not lonely for long.
And the King and the Queen pass back and forwards between the cards. I count, carefully, out of habit. I don’t care, not really. Not any more.
They pass, face down, so neither can see the other, from hand to hand, apart, apart; together only briefly before my own hands pass them off, driving them away.
And your finger keeps on tapping, tapping to the rhythm of the shuffling cards.
Then I begin to deal to you all, my counted cards flashing away to the smoke-stained hands and drink-washed faces; harsh, steady, unyielding eyes that flicker blankly, while the black souls beneath peer out, and into my mind.
And the ring is in the centre, glistening dully. I do not care anymore.
But I count the cards anyway. I deal, my fingers slipping, slack with sweat. And I know, before I raise the pictures to my eyes what I have played. I give you the hearts and I get the spades; you the King and I the Knave.
And the man in the dark red jacket, whiskey on his breath, gets the ring.
I don’t care. Not any more. I listen to your finger tapping, the rhythm overwhelming. I draw another card, and count, without thinking. One, two three, One two three, Bring her back, Back to me.