Poker Face

Hardy flips his card over, the black spade glowing bright in the dark light of the casino.

“You’ve got ’till nine-thirty to beat me, then your time is up,” he sighs, taking the pick out from his teeth to take a sip of water from the cup in front of him.

Deangelo stares at the card, appaled. “C’mon, man, that’s totally unfair. Time doesn’t exactly grow on trees. Give me an hour.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then at least let me root out my own strategy. I can’t be seen losing to a hoe like you—I’ve got a reputation.”

“Deals a deal.”

“Fine, fine. At least pass me that fruit—I need some brain food.”

“That’s a tomato,” Hardy states bluntly, gesturing a scarred hand to the sliced tomatoes on the plate that the waiter had brought over at Deangelo’s request.

“Exactly. All fruits contain some sort of seed. Anyways, I dig a good, fresh tomato. I’ll need it if I’m going to beat you.”

“Please,” he scoffs. “You couldn’t beat me if I had two arms stuck behind my back and a dealer was showing you all my cards. Thirty more minutes, and then I’m gone. Better get playing.”

Deangelo huffs but obliges, a new purpose flowering in his chest as he tries to morph his expression into one of indifference, the perfect bored look to mask any reaction over what his cards would be. He loses spectacularly no less than two minutes later.

He never had a very good poker face anyway.