Jonathan Monk

Mr. Bellows

Thirteen, thirteen is the number that puts me on edge, the number that makes my palms sweat and my teeth clench. I tap the table in front of me, and the dealer throws down another card. My eyes are watery now, my mouth is dry, and my wallet is light. Walking away is the smart thing to do, yet my mind keeps giving me visions of what could be, but isn’t. The dealer shows nineteen, I have 20, the pot is mine. I loosen my clenched jaw, and take a short breath of relief, as I collect my chips and step away from the table.