Outside, the man is calm, nothing moving except his eyes, which follow the beige horse which holds his house’s title deed in its teeth. As it falls to second two laps before the finish, he throws up, the vomit stringed with blood, to the amazement of those around him.
The chips flow through her fingers at the blackjack table until she is no longer sure whether she is taking money in or paying it out. The multicolored stacks lose their meaning, as do the numbers on their faces; she has no perception of the difference between one and one hundred. Soon, the numbers on the card will lose their meanings, too.
One last time, the man thinks, then I’ll go home. Takes the last five from his wallet and puts it on the counter. The woman, glaze-eyed, takes it and begins to dance. His tired wrist and sore penis take even more abuse.