fur, dice, and donuts

so last night i learned a few things about casinos.

i went to Connecticut not expecting to have much fun. in preperation, i put on my designer label clothing, pearls, diamonds, and fur. i told everyone,my two friends, that i was going to be Sharon Stone for the evening. they didn't think it was clever. i did.

we checked our coats and i assumed my snobby and flirtatious identity. my friends wanted to play craps and that delighted me. i could blow on the dice and shit while i casually stole some fat man's green and yellow chips.

before we could start, i received a tutorial while the third of our crew hovered for an opening at the $5 table. i listened, or tried to. but i was also fascinated by all those men in beige suits, constantly looking, constantly whispering, moving, waiting. i heard enough to figure out the very basics, so we scooped up our other friend--still hovering--and stood in at the non-smoking $10 table. the man at this one was creepy. he'd made eye contact when we made our initial rounds. flirty eye contact. sharon stone would've licked her lips or something. but i'd forgotten my sexy lip gloss and, well, i sucked as sharon stone.

unfortunately, i was the first to throw. and i was at an awful angle for a right-handed lady. it didn't help that i grabbed all five dice instead of two, or that i lifted them out of the acceptable boundry. oh, or that on my first roll, i threw one of them straight over some guy's head.

but it was cute. i was the dumb beginner. superstitious men were placing their chips on the pass line and the field in my honor. the men that would stack the dice, one atop the other, grab them with exactly three fingers, slide them in small circles exactly three times, tap them exactly twice, then lift them into the air. i had no beginner luck. none of them had any chips for me to steal. i wouldn't have done it anyway.

the beige-suited man rotated with another, then returned again. he was aggressively hitting on me and i pretended i didn't hear him or didn't notice. i told my friend it was hot in here; the beige man said yes you are. i was drinking beer; he suggested something stronger. i adjusted my glasses; he commented on their X factor. his eyes were there, constantly. i bit my lip intentionally, but i couldn't meet his stare. i couldn't kid myself. i hoped the suited men would "comp" us because i was cute. that didn't happen.

the drinks came too slow and the table was cold. my back was getting sore from standing and i spilt a fellow gambler's drink on my Fendi. one friend left to play some blackjack. the two of us stayed. i didn't want to leave. there were buzzwords and fidgets and cheers and curses to keep me constantly looking, considering. i noticed the excessive amount of cameras, all the suited men. i thought of being stoned in a place like this and completely freaking the fuck out. i was glad i no longer do drugs.

my money lasted several hours. my single solitary $100 bill. i didn't win anything. no one slipped me a chip as a compliment. i watched old people with oxygen tanks stare at slots. frat boys grew angry as if expecting to win. i couldn't catch the fever. but i liked holding the dice.

the night ended with too many shots Krispe Kremes. the sober one drove and me and the other passed out. i woke for a moment about halfway home when i dropped the coffee i'd fallen asleep holding. it leaked down my jacket, my winter white fur. i went back to sleep, my arm wet, warm, stinking. thoughts of the shots flashed into my mouth and i closed my eyes. when we reached the apartment, i didn't wash my face. just my arm.