Thirty Euros at the Table

I’ve been to a casino exactly once. Lost everything. It was thirty euros, which isn’t a tragedy by any objective measure, but thirty euros is also eight-and-a-half kebabs, and losing eight-and-a-half kebabs to a roulette wheel at two in the morning feels like a moral failing regardless of denomination.

The AXE Excite campaign that year had an angle I couldn’t quite hate: fallen angels, played by improbably attractive models, had descended to earth and were now looking for love among the mortals. One of them was Josipa, a redhead, and the pitch was that someone would win a date with her in Monte Carlo. Casino, obviously. The symmetry was almost elegant.

I don’t know that I’d have done better at the tables with a beautiful redhead at my elbow. I’d probably have lost the thirty euros faster, ordered more drinks, and felt considerably worse about it in the morning. But there’s something to the fantasy of walking into a casino with someone who makes the room tilt slightly—not because it changes your odds, but because it changes what the night is actually about.