He shuffles a deck of cards. Plush black backing with a standard face. I watch his hands move elegantly and dextrously, dealing, his hands glide from his pile, to his friends, to mine. Life dealt us very similar cards, though we fan our hands differently and play in polar opposite styles. He is conservative with his plays, preferring to save his hand for opportune moments. A card counter. I am impulsive, high risk for high reward, which usually paid off. No regard for the maths of the game. I glance down at my hand, the soft glow of candles warming out the room and giving the impression of something that someone, somewhere, could mistake for romance. There is no mutual connection. He wears his expression neutrally; I wear my heart on my sleeve. How dangerous for a game of poker. He speaks his mind; I speak my heart. How dangerous for a game of love.