Casino

You go to Vegas or the Riviera of France in your best James Bond suit, and the women in their famous slinky gowns rub their bare shoulders against you as you stand at the table playing Baccarat. The dealer has dark flashy eyes but doesn't care. You just pass. You tinkle the ice in your clear vodka drink. It's a romantic cold, a scarey worldly cold that assumes your self-sufficiency. You are lonely but that's how you are supposed to feel, how you feel most skillfully. You win, you lose. The house takes you. You try to read the mind of God.