I look into her eyes, startling green with a hint of blue, see them latch onto mine, and realize she wants me to kiss her. An instant later, I realize I'm not going to do it. Sure, she's beautiful. Sure, I want to. But, somehow, even presented with almost irrefutable evidence of her desire for me, I can't muster up the courage. What if I'm wrong? I can just picture the look of horror and disgust, brillant eyes hidden beneath a furrowed brow. "What are you doing?" She'll never be comfortable around me again. I'll recieve a stigma with the others; whispers when I approach, occasionally the question: "Did you really try to...you know...?" My closest friends will try to comfort me, but even they'll have to admit I've done wrong. I'll feel the nauseating touch of rejection, and every time she shivers away from me as I reach for an English muffin at breakfast or the butter at dinner I'll feel it again. Even if she's forgiving, understanding even, she'll whisper secrets of my transgression to some friend under the cover of some night in some private bedroom at some sleepover, and they'll share a giggle at my obvious inadequacies. Soon, everyone will know. Another irreversible embarrasment, to be raised as an undeniable trump card in the poker game that is my life, by smiling partners to whom the trump is a trivial victory, even while it ruins me. They, of course, would kiss her in an instant, and of course, she would just love it. They all have "it": machismo, charisma, the right stuff. What I want, but don't have. What I will never have. For years leading up to this I've gotten by on a performance. A wonderful performance, certainly, an elaborate one that seemed almost real, but now it all crashes down around me like the set to a cheap Western. You can win a lot at poker by bluffing well, but when all bets are made and all the chips are down, the only way to win is to have a better hand. Here, with her, with the other people here, I thought I could begin again, leave behind the nervous, timid me who had already shown his entire hand and effectively dropped out of the game. Here, where no one had seen anything but my easy grin and the elaborate blue-and-white backing of my cards, I could start to win. I took her in. That's a victory in itself, but, unfortunately, only a moral one. She hasn't dropped out of the game, she's calling my bluff, and suddenly I remember I've got nothing.

I lay down my cards. What do you know, one short of a straight. In other words, zilch. There, she sees, I can tell by her eyes. A moment of surprise, a moment of regret, a moment of pity, then back to normal. After all, she doesn't want to give away her hand to a pretender like me. Enough losing for one day. As the moment passes and she looks away, I yawn. "I'm thirsty. You want anything?" By the time I come back, the others will be here, and we can go back to penny-ante game where she and I can be equals. It pains me to leave - what if she gives me a second chance? - but knowing when to fold is the most important skill a gambler can have. Especially for a guy like me.

The game's not over. The game's never over. We'll play again, with smaller stakes, and maybe she'll let me win once or twice, or let me see some of her hand. But her eyes will never focus on mine like that again, she'll never bother to wonder just how much of "it" I have again, and never again will I come close to winning, really winning, a hand of poker.

back to the highway that never ends