The Game
I glanced down again at the table and noticed a stack of cards now sat to the far right on the table. They were large cards, bigger than my hand, almost a comical clown size. The deep crimson color was now a pale red, and the design on the back was worn off evenly with age. The rounded corners and edges of the thick cards were fluffed from countless shuffling. The cards themselves felt soft to the touch from usage and age.
I knew without doubt I had hand selected each card in my deck carefully. I knew the strengths and weaknesses of every card I held. I looked confidently across the dark nothingness at my opponent.
He had his own set of cards, worn and used well with age. The royal blue color faded now into a more slate blue grey, the once crisp and neat design was now so faded the edges seemed almost blurred.
For years we have been playing this game against each other. He plays his hand, I play mine. The winner takes all, and the only rule is there are no rules. There is no card that can’t be played. We both have our favorites, he and I. Cards that are always in the deck, whether they are ever played or not.
“What is that card, you hide in your hat?” I taunted him. “I thought you play a fair game.”
“It’s no more dubious than the card hidden up your sleeve.” he retorted.
I glanced under the sleeve on my right arm, and the top of an unused normal sized card emerged. I noticed the crisp clean crimson design, and the gleaming of the glossy coat in the light. It was my trump card, I knew in my heart. I did not need to turn it over to know it’s power, it’s absolute power. It was the card I would play when all others failed, it was a card that was never played. I lowered my arm and the sleeve covered the card sending it back into hiding, and out of the forefront of my mind.
He laid his first card on the table, to his far left. The cartoonish look of the card’s content reminded me of children’s cards from the early seventies or late sixties, from games like Old Maid and the like.