She was bluffing. She had to be. He raised-nothing dramatic because he didn’t want her backing away. She hesitated and then matched his bet and raised him another two hundred. He was going to make a mistake. He could feel it in his bones. But which way would his error lie? Would he fold as he had before and let her take a pot like that with a piss-poor hand? Or would he push her to the wall? Was he underestimating her hand? He didn’t see how he could be, but he’d lost touch with his intuition. He couldn’t reason. His mind was empty. When he was on a roll he could see the cards. It was like having X-ray vision. The odds would dance in his head like sugarplum fairies and he’d feel the magic at work. Now all he could take in was the green felt and the harsh lights and the cards, which lay there inert and whispered nothing to him. If he picked up this pot he was home free. He could picture it, his holding to etiquette and not reaching for the pot at first even though it was his. The dealer would push the chips in his direction. He wouldn’t even look at the blonde, because who cared about her? This was his moment. Doubt had obscured his initial fleeting instincts. He couldn’t remember what his gut had been telling him. Time seemed to stretch. She was waiting, and the dealer waited, and the other players measured his chances in the same way he did. If he won the pot, he’d quit. He made a promise to himself. He’d get up, collect his winnings, and walk out a free man.

She was a woman who bluffed. She’d gotten him once and if she was a killer, she’d do it again. What were the chances of the two of them going head-to-head like this and her bluffing a second time? How much nerve did she have? How calculating was she? She wouldn’t do that, would she? He had to make a decision. He felt like he was standing on a ten-meter board, teetering on the brink, trying to work up the courage to go flying off the edge. Fuck it, he thought, and he went all in. He was not going to let the bitch get the best of him.