One (standard:romance, 1104 words)
Author: V.N. Leigh	Added: Jun 16 2004	Views/Reads: 3486/2235	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
It's only just a game, but it's the players and the conversation that make it interesting.

Ace, spade. Flip, flip, flip. Seven of diamonds on a black eight?
Nothing to attach it to. 

He glanced out the window. Silver ice hung silent in the obsidian night.
A beautiful danger pending something ominous, depsite the beauty of the 
streetlights reflecting off the air borne ice. 

Three more cards. There was silence, but for the sound of heavy,wax
coated paper slipping lightly on the cheap, black enamel table. No 
moves and three more cards. Still he was paralyzed and so close to the 
end of the deck. He knew his destiny. To reach the end of the deck 
without a move meant certain loss, or failure, depending on how much of 
himself he had staked in this card game. 

"Not much," he smiled. 

There was a click. He jumped. Everytime she opened the door it startled
him, scared him. She sashayed into the kitchen, cold wafting from her 
long, black coat. It radiated from her and ran itself over his skin, 
chilling him and drawing shivers from him. She drew the hood back and 
let the snow tumble and die on the linoleum. 

"You don't even greet me anymore," she said coldly. She frowned from the
refrigerator, holding a glass of ice white milk in her black gloved 
hand. "I'm beginning to feel neglected." 

He looked up. "You haven't taken your coat of yet, dear. How can I be
certain you're going to stay until you do. I'm not going to greet you 
if you're not going to stay." 

She drank her milk slowly, letting the liquid congregate in the not
quite crimson cracks in her dry lips before she swallowed it down. She 
sucked the glass dry, dropped it into the sink with a harsh, unpleasant 
clatter, removed her coat, and tossed it lazily on the counter. 

She moved. She was a vision in black, the mock neck sweater clinging to
her, charged with static, the pants perfectly creased, straight lined, 
tailored. Her shoes had come off at the door, but even the socks, 
smooth and ebony, outlined each perfect curve of each perfect foot. 

She sat down at the table and frowned at the cards. She pointed to the
ace of spades. 

"That's bad luck you know, " she said, pointing to the card and sniffing
slightly. "The cold does something to your nose." 

He shifted his head as though he would have liked to have responded with
a nod. 

"It's only solitaire. It doesn't take that much of your attention. Why
not try a game for two?" 

"You weren't here when I started to play." 

"Well, I'm here now, and you're losing anyway." Her voice drew itself
out through her nose. 

He opened his mouth. "It's a bit cold in here. Would you mind turning up
the heat while I deal out cards for euchre?" 

He gathered up his wasted game, and began to shuffle again. Clack,
clack, clack. Waxed paper against itself. 

She shurgged her thin, sweatered shoulders, and glided over to the
thermostat. "I'm not much in the mood for cards anyway." She turned up 
the heat, and selected a magazine from off the shelf. She languidly 
stretched, a black cat across the sofa, a feline femme fatale, lazily 
loving the soft sofa cushions, engaging herself in her fashion magazine 
as she affectionately caressed the silken images of models. 

Perfection. 

He turned back to his game. He redealt the cards for solitaire. Seven
rows, each increasing in length, and that unreliable deck to the side 
to save him if he should run into trouble. His shoulders, covered in 


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