THE HOUSE ALWAYS WINS

The lights, the dice, the drinks have always been part of the adrenaline running through my veins. I’ve never thought about anything else, not even the consequences of the game.

The need for stimulation, where adrenaline takes over and your mind can think of nothing but winning, even though the house always makes you lose.

The casino has this smell that tempts you to stay, to sit down and never get back up. To order a drink or two from that waitress you’re always watching out of the corner of your eye, even though she never looks back.

The alcohol hits me fast, and I should go home. I’m running out of excuses.

My phone rings. Ten missed calls. I turn it off, knowing what’s waiting for me.

Outside, there’s a reality I don’t want to face. My head is spinning, like the dice I just threw.
I know she’s at home, wide awake, worried, counting the hours and watching our bank account.

The time I’ve taken from her is starting to show on her face, while the game keeps me alive.

Maybe I should get in the car, go back to her, and leave all of this behind. Drive home this drunk, not caring about the lights glaring into my eyes. But the casino keeps calling me, and it won’t let me stop.

The house keeps winning, and I, like the pathetic loser I am, biting my nails, throw the dice one more time, searching for that pair of eights that might save me from the bankruptcy waiting just around the corner.

Sitting on the curb, my head in my hands, crying over everything I’ve lost, I look at my phone. No more calls, the account frozen, but I still have these dice that stay with me and the tables that will welcome me back tomorrow without reproach, always awake.

The house always wins. A loser I’ll always be.

Tomorrow I’ll come back with a loan in my hand and lose it all over again, roll by roll, eight by eight, until one day I look at my phone and there are no more missed calls.