“Heads, we get married; tails, we break up.”

His companion tapped the deck of cards that sat on the table between them. “If you really want to gamble, why not make it interesting? One card decides. Jack or better and you win the bet.”

“What are the odds?”

“Not as good as your heads or tails.”

He poured another shot and tossed it back. “That’s a harder bet to win. Can we make it the best two out of three?”

Her throaty laugh was as smoky as her cigarette. She took a long, hot drag. “That lengthens the odds. Do you want to win or lose?”

Leaning forward, he breathed in her scent. Stale perfume, cheap whiskey, burnt tobacco. “Does it matter?”

She shrugged. “Not particularly.”

“That’s what I thought,” he grumbled. “Has anything ever made a difference to you?”

The lines in her face softened as her silvery blue eyes turned dreamy. “It did once,” she murmured with a wistful sigh. The glowing coal on the stub of her unfiltered cigarette scorched the scarred flesh between her yellowed fingers. Hissing, she viciously mashed it out, picked up the whiskey bottle, and drained the last thimbleful into her glass. “But that was long ago,” she declared gratingly. “In another life.”

He stood, wobbled a bit, and made his way to the cupboard where he found another bottle and cracked it open. “Doesn’t sound like you have anything to lose.”

With a hiccup, she laughed. “Nothing I haven’t lost already.”

“So, which will it be? The coin or the cards?”

“Heads, it’s the cards. Tails, it’s the coin.”

The fresh bottle of whiskey landed on the table with a thunk as he fell into his chair. Doubting his understanding, he asked, “You want to flip a coin to decide whether we flip

a coin or cut the cards?”

She lit another cigarette. “Sure, it’s as good a way as any to decide.”

Nodding, he poured two new shots. “Makes as much sense as any of it. You have a quarter?”

“I doubt it.” She picked her jeans up from the floor and rummaged through the pockets. “I never win at strip poker. Or anything else, for that matter.”

“I never win bets, either,” he said, leaning down to retrieve his pants. Methodically, he checked one pocket after another but came up empty. “There must be a quarter around here somewhere.”

“I found a dime,” she crowed and tossed her jeans back on the floor.

“I can’t flip a dime,” he complained. “My hands are too big. I’m clumsy with something that small.”

“Never fear, my fine friend. I have the dainty, little fingers of an aristocrat. I’ll flip. You call it.”

“Hell, I’ll never win this bet.”

“Call it,” she repeated.

“Tails,” he muttered as the coin sailed across the room. It bounced on the counter before rolling into the sink.

She staggered over, braced herself on the counter, and peered closely at the coin. “And heads it is.”

“Figures. I never win a bet.” He gulped more whiskey.

“Me neither. But we’re not done yet.” She flopped into her chair. “You still need to cut the cards.”

“What for?”

“To see if you get a Jack or better.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, nodding as he poured another round. “Another bet.”

Reaching across the table, she pulled the cards in close. “Not that I don’t trust you, mister, but I don’t know you. I want to shuffle before you draw.”

“Shuffle to your heart’s content.”

She did.

“You keep that up; you’re going to wear the spots off.”

“Just making sure.” She riffled the cards one last time and slapped the deck on the table. “Only one draw. Winner takes all.”

“Winner takes all,” he agreed and rubbed his hands together. Interlacing his fingers, he pressed outward with his arms and cracked his knuckles. “Since I never win bets, here goes nothing.”

With trembling hand, he reached out, fumbled a few cards off the top and, before she objected, divided the deck. Turning his hand over, he displayed the King of Hearts.

“You won!” she shouted enthusiastically. “You won the bet!”

A pumpkin grin lighted his bloated face. “I won the bet,” he whispered in disbelief. “I can’t believe I won.”

His blurry eyes beamed joyfully into hers. “What was the bet?”