He fiddles the cards idly, turning them over in his hand, splaying them out, cutting and re-cutting the deck.
The cards are old. Worn at the edges, splitting at the corners, fading images on the faces. Once-stiff paper turned soft and pliant. He turns them over, face-up, to display a King of spades. Snorting, he once more flips them back and cuts it. A Jack of hearts.
His back is against the damp wood of the wall, his face turned to the empty hearth. If he closed his eyes, then he might hear the hissing of a fire, the quiet hum of converse and distant laughter. Golden light would gild the taproom, and stars would wink through freshly cleaned windows.
He does not close his eyes. Instead, he turns all the cards face up, fanning them out in his spindly hands with ease of long practice, as if to display their uneven order to a potential audience. Flipping them back over and shuffling a bit more, he offers them again to the empty room. “Pick a card, any card,” he says aloud, though his voice is cracked and sore.
“Third from left,” an amused voice speaks from memory, its tenor filled with ghostly golden light. He imagines a strong hand taking the stated card, inspecting it with an indulgent smile. He nods, takes a breath, re-shuffles the cards, the taken card lying alone on the dusty floor.
He cuts the deck, flips the cards, ruffles them and bridges them, engages a ghost in lively conversation meant to draw the attention away from silver-quick hands. He holds the deck back out, and imagines a hand sliding the card back among its fellows. He shuffles once more, then inspects his deck.
A Queen of hearts, a two of clubs, three fours all in a row, and a lonely joker that doesn’t belong.
“Is this your card?”
No one answers.
