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She places a single chip in front of her. She smiles as I place the entire stack in front of me.
"A big spender." The dealer, an older guy with short, grey hair, smiles at us. "Here on your honeymoon?"
Daphne looks around the space, noting the sparsely occupied tables around us, and the high rollers area hiding behind sheer curtains. At a glance, both groups look the same. Everyone is lost in a trance of gambling. Sure, a few of the guys in the high rollers area are wearing suits and designer watches, but others are wearing sweats.
Everyone is smoking free cigarettes and drinking from short glasses.
It's not the image of luxury I see at home or work. It's an older idea, an East Coast one, where people show off their money with cigars and fur coats, not private Pilates instructors and oceanfront condos.
"Not yet." Daphne holds up her unadorned left hand as she shoots the dealer a smile. "But maybe tomorrow."
"Maybe your boyfriend will pop the question," the dealer says.
"And then I'll get lucky," she says.
The dealer looks at the chips in our hands. "Are you and your boyfriend new to blackjack?"
"Oh, he's not my boyfriend. He's my conquest." She shoots me a knowing smile, but I don't know what it means. Only that I don't like the dealer flirting with her.
Or is he making conversation?
My signals are crossed.
I'm too interested in her. I'm not observing things neutrally the way I usually do.
It's hard to observe when you care. That's the difficult part of my job. When I work with someone again and again, I start to care too much to see straight. I have to pull in outside help.
Maybe it's the same for doctors too. Maybe that's why they have a reputation for curt behavior.
It's hard to look at someone as a collection of symptoms with a potentially fatal diagnosis if you want them in your life forever.
"I haven't played in a while," she says. "He's an expert though."
The dealer doesn't ask why Daphne knows so much about her conquest. He just smiles and explains the game. (No doubt, we're not even in the top ten strangest people he's met today). The goal is to hit twenty-one. Initially, everyone is dealt two cards, including the dealer; only one of his is face-down.
You can hold or ask the dealer to hit for another card. As many cards as you like until you hold or bust—hit above twenty-one.
You can also double-down, which means you double your bet but accept only one additional card.
And you can split a pair, so you have two hands instead of one.
"Too many rules," Daphne interrupts. "But my friend, uh, my—Oh what's the word? My consort Jackson—" She shoots me a troublemaking wink. The kind I expect from her brother. The kind I expect from anyone else. "Jackson loves rules. He probably knows them, and the odds, already." She looks to me for confirmation.
I nod.
The dealer too. "Then, Jackson, you must be ready." He looks to our empty green.
Right. I tap my chips.
Daphne copies the gesture.
"I didn't catch your name, darling." In a smooth motion, the dealer delivers our cards and a flirty smile.
"Daphne." She studies the table. The dealer has a six up. A hard hand to play against, statistically speaking.
But Daphne is at seventeen.
Most likely, the other card is a ten, statistically, and the dealer always hits on sixteen. That's what I like about blackjack.
