Juliet Fergus

Silverfish

I could not see the faces, so I followed the tics and tells of their fingers, picking out the passionate from those feigning to care less. Bruised notes of money flashed across the table, flowing like shoals of fish towards the winner. Two arms would spread out to engulf the spoils. Then, scraping chair legs, howls of laughter, coarse goodbyes and the door out slamming shut. This ritual took place every Saturday night, with the hands the same - though they could move position. I began to recognise the individual pairs distinctly. I could even name the owner.