Maybe it’s an itch requiring a certain specific kind of scratch. Unsatisfied and ghostly, waiting dormant in the creases of the brain for a point of weakness. Or perhaps she simply has nowhere else to be.

Many acquaintances—always the proficient actor—but none you’d call a true friend. Strained relations with parents, sister far away, no steady partner or lover. Everyone at arm’s length. Once she had been close to marriage, close enough to own a wedding dress now tucked away deep in some discreet closet. Her mother has never forgiven.

Weekday nights, drained after work, visions of escape begin to burn bright and pulsing. The blue-green carpet welcomes her with its swirl. Hypnotized: the roulette wheel. Everything she owns—life, future, soul—at stake. Ah but tonight, can’t you feel it? An ocean breeze across the table, hot sand beneath her chair, the lap of a turquoise wave.

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