I must stop lamenting that love is not in the cards for me. Well there are fifty-one others, aren’t there? And I have not been dealt such a bad hand otherwise.
Life could be a game of Crazy Eights. So love would be like the Queen of Spades, pick up five, the all-powerful game changer. Or perhaps more like all four eights, the power to change the course, the direction. Or like the Jacks, cancelling out someone else’s turn, freezing the other player. Or perhaps love is like all these combined.
That’s nine cards!
But still there are forty-three others. The other player can still win, even if they have only happened upon aces and twos in their cache. Like myself, seemingly or perhaps. Anyway, at the end of the deck it all gets shuffled and replayed and it’s really anyone’s game until it’s absolutely over, isn’t it?
Well I am starting to think he can only lay down with me when he is drunk. I know this trick but until now it has always been me at the winning end of the bargain. Not the poor sod who jumps. But if I just quit worrying about those nine cards, I think I would enjoy the match quite a lot more. And in this way there really is no need to lament.
And anyway it has happened more than once that I’ve been down to my last card while the other player still had loads in hand and my victory was sure and then it didn’t come to pass and I lost. But also, the other player won. So there’s the bit about time and chance.