Poker Face

  I find my self in the basement of my colleague's house. The burning Cuban tobacco fills the room with an unmistakable scent that mixes with the muskiness of the pouring rain. The term "six feet under" doesn't hold a candle to this. I'm ten feet down and ten grand in. If there was ever a chance to turn back, now was not the time. The air is still as the sky rumbles. The roaring of the lions high over head and the flash of their illuminate manes, breaks the tension hovering in the muggy jungle air from time to time. Beads of sweat roll down my neck as I glance at my cards one last time. I've bet all that I brought and the cards in my hand waver in the fate of my destiny. Should I leave with the luck of the draw and the pot placed in front of me or leave with not even a thread of dignity left to my name? I feel uneasy, jumpy, on pins and needles, hung up on a string by the tattered collar of my over-used, under-appreciated polo shirt. My fate rests in the hands of people around me. I will not sleep tonight...