Dressed Up for Losing

Ten euros. That’s what I walked out with less of. The way I felt leaving the casino, you’d think I’d bet the furniture.

We’d put on suits for it—shirt, jacket, the full thing—because there was a dress code and because dressing up is its own small performance of belonging. Inside, the place had the standard casino atmosphere: air-conditioned nowhere, carpet designed to disorient, the collective sound of people trying not to look like they care. I put my €2 chip on black. The roulette wheel did its indifferent thing. I tried again. The wheel remained indifferent. The full arc of the gambler’s psychology compressed into about forty minutes: hope, the urge to double down, the slow recognition that the mechanism genuinely does not know you exist.

The man standing next to me had no feelings about any of it. Old, expressionless, dark jacket. He laid a stack of hundreds next to my chip and we lost together. He left without a word—no grimace, no exhale, just gone. I stood there for a moment thinking about what it costs to arrive at a face like that.

Sabse’s place afterward was the better call anyway. Vodka, spin the bottle, something involving mustard in a beer that I’m choosing not to remember in detail. Her neighbor materialized at some point and the night went the way those nights go. By the time we were back in the car it was nearly dawn, the roads empty and straight, and someone had Phantom Planet on—so there we were, all of us bellowing "California, here we come" at the windshield as we tore down the country roads. I looked up and saw red lights blinking on the horizon, some antenna or transmission tower. Leaned back in the seat. Felt almost like home, whatever that means.