The cards of the 30 year old deck festooned with Monet´ prints swoosh so easily pliant in our hands we unthinking about what the cards must know.
The dealer endures rebuke for bad hands and pleads randomness and no malice but still has the cheek to brag of her own good lot. The cards bear unholy smudges of anger and oh the tales fingerprints could tell: loss of cool, onslaught of quiet ire if not murderous fancies all shielded by superb acting and control of ****** muscles and the pace of breathing.
This drama plays out unspoken but with latently lurking hurts, slights, envy and long smoldering resentments.
Even patriarchy rears its ugly self-righteous head and cords of tolerance of the old man are strained and taut to the breaking point, Pete now realizing why Kit no longer plays when Dad’s at table.
But then there is the rare event like when it’s revealed that Liz had the better hand but folded because she knew Burt needed a win tonight.