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The Gambler
A True Story by The El
We walked the city streets without purpose. A loose hair clung to the rear end of her black khaki pants. I resisted the urge to peel it off. Having a good look at her for the first time in three months made me realize how big of a screw-up I was. I cheated on her. It began to rain and we both had umbrellas. I opted that we share one. Reluctantly, she acquiesced, on the condition that she be allowed to hold it. Across the street, an elderly white man tripped, falling flat on his face. We kept walking.
She said, “Put yourself in my shoes. You understand, right? I mean, we can’t just go back to normal like nothing ever happened.”
I wanted to say, “We can!”
But I didn’t.
An uncomfortable quiet, the kind that follows after someone farts silently on a crowded elevator, took form. She caught a glimpse of my guilt-ridden countenance through the corner of her left eye. The harder I stared, the more determined she grew to continue looking forward. A rough-looking black man with a pair of varicose veins streaming equidistantly down his biceps obstructed my path. Unshielded from the rain for two seconds, I walked around him.
“You give up too easily,” she said, very crossly. “For once, just fight!”
She went on. I didn’t listen. Her breath stank. I wanted to turn away and gag. Instead, I twisted my lips and squinted my eyes. Involuntarily, my nostrils flared. She noticed. We chuckled.
Forty minutes later and inside a restaurant, conversation thrived. She smiled, I joked, she laughed. We hadn’t skipped a beat. I excused myself to the men’s room and pissed. On my way out, very consciously, I looked at the sink, decided not to wash my hands, and left.
Back at the table, I prolonged my meal. My jokes staggered and my stories lost their swagger. I became desperate in my efforts to keep her attention. And then, I realized that I wanted her back. Three months later—(three girls later)—and I wanted her back?
Out of nowhere, she went, “Sophia’s very pretty.”
“Eh, she’s okay… … … … … I guess.”
“Prettier than me.”
“… … … … … Eh, well… … … … …”
“… … … … …”
“… … … … …”
“I cut my hair… … … What do you think?”
A neatly cropped bowl of shiny black curls. I didn’t care for the new look.
“It’s great.”
At the sight of my contrived smile, she shrank into the maroon seat cushion. Like a child being told at the start of dinner to forget about dessert.
I attempted to change the subject. “The service here sucks.”
She didn’t go for it. “What are you gonna do, Lawrence? Piss in their sink?”
She gathered her things. I watched. A condom fell from her bag and onto the table. Magnum XL, for the well-endowed. My chest tightened. My saliva thickened into a foamy muck. In three months, some sly, greasy-palmed horndog had managed to finagle from her that which eluded me for nearly three years!
I said, “… … … … …”
And she said, “I have to go now.”
She pocketed the condom and left a crisp note on the table for the tip.
As she walked away, something uncontrollable in me blurted out, “But I still I love you!”
She never responded.
A True Story by The El
We walked the city streets without purpose. A loose hair clung to the rear end of her black khaki pants. I resisted the urge to peel it off. Having a good look at her for the first time in three months made me realize how big of a screw-up I was. I cheated on her. It began to rain and we both had umbrellas. I opted that we share one. Reluctantly, she acquiesced, on the condition that she be allowed to hold it. Across the street, an elderly white man tripped, falling flat on his face. We kept walking.
She said, “Put yourself in my shoes. You understand, right? I mean, we can’t just go back to normal like nothing ever happened.”
I wanted to say, “We can!”
But I didn’t.
An uncomfortable quiet, the kind that follows after someone farts silently on a crowded elevator, took form. She caught a glimpse of my guilt-ridden countenance through the corner of her left eye. The harder I stared, the more determined she grew to continue looking forward. A rough-looking black man with a pair of varicose veins streaming equidistantly down his biceps obstructed my path. Unshielded from the rain for two seconds, I walked around him.
“You give up too easily,” she said, very crossly. “For once, just fight!”
She went on. I didn’t listen. Her breath stank. I wanted to turn away and gag. Instead, I twisted my lips and squinted my eyes. Involuntarily, my nostrils flared. She noticed. We chuckled.
Forty minutes later and inside a restaurant, conversation thrived. She smiled, I joked, she laughed. We hadn’t skipped a beat. I excused myself to the men’s room and pissed. On my way out, very consciously, I looked at the sink, decided not to wash my hands, and left.
Back at the table, I prolonged my meal. My jokes staggered and my stories lost their swagger. I became desperate in my efforts to keep her attention. And then, I realized that I wanted her back. Three months later—(three girls later)—and I wanted her back?
Out of nowhere, she went, “Sophia’s very pretty.”
“Eh, she’s okay… … … … … I guess.”
“Prettier than me.”
“… … … … … Eh, well… … … … …”
“… … … … …”
“… … … … …”
“I cut my hair… … … What do you think?”
A neatly cropped bowl of shiny black curls. I didn’t care for the new look.
“It’s great.”
At the sight of my contrived smile, she shrank into the maroon seat cushion. Like a child being told at the start of dinner to forget about dessert.
I attempted to change the subject. “The service here sucks.”
She didn’t go for it. “What are you gonna do, Lawrence? Piss in their sink?”
She gathered her things. I watched. A condom fell from her bag and onto the table. Magnum XL, for the well-endowed. My chest tightened. My saliva thickened into a foamy muck. In three months, some sly, greasy-palmed horndog had managed to finagle from her that which eluded me for nearly three years!
I said, “… … … … …”
And she said, “I have to go now.”
She pocketed the condom and left a crisp note on the table for the tip.
As she walked away, something uncontrollable in me blurted out, “But I still I love you!”
She never responded.
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