t’s 9 pm and I’d rather be in bed. I tell myself that’s because I’m tired. Because I’ve had a long day. Because people in their late twenties, with stable lives and respectable relationships, don’t need to be out at pubs on a whim. But that’s not really it. The truth is, I’ve built a life that runs smoothly as long as I don’t look at it too closely.
I’m twenty-eight, almost twenty-nine, and everything about me makes sense on paper. The flat. The routines. The fiancé. The version of me people recognise, the one that fits neatly into conversations and expectations. I wear it well. I’ve had practice. It’s just… not the first version of me. There was another one, once. Less polished. more certain. A version that didn’t always choose the safe option, that didn’t always edit herself down to something easier to explain. I don’t think about her much anymore. Or at least, I try not to. It’s easier that way. “Recovered,” I used to call it. Like I’d fixed something. Like I’d outgrown a phase instead of… leaving something behind.
My phone lights up again on the bedside table. We’re all here :) no pressure, but you’d be very welcome. Her. The flower girl. I hadn’t planned on noticing her. I went into the shop for peonies, something simple, something neutral, something that belongs in the life I have now. But she didn’t treat me like I was just passing through. She looked at me like there was something worth pausing for. Like she could see through the version of me I’ve been presenting. I didn’t like how much that unsettled me. I still don’t.
I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the message, and for a moment I feel it that familiar resistance. I think about the way she smiled. The way she said my name like it meant something. The way I felt, standing there in that shop, like I’d been caught off guard by a version of myself I don’t usually let out. I hate how easy it would be to ignore this. To stay in, go to bed, wake up tomorrow and carry on exactly as I have been. That’s what I’m supposed to do. That’s who I am now. …isn’t it? I exhale slowly and stand up before I can talk myself out of it.
The pub is louder than I expected, full of overlapping voices and the clatter of glasses. It feels like stepping into something I didn’t prepare for, something slightly out of sync with the life I’ve been living. I hesitate near the door. Then I see her. She spots me almost immediately, like she was hoping I would show up and her face lights up. Not politely. Not out of obligation. Like she’s actually glad I’m here. “Hey,” she says, stepping closer. “You came.” “I almost didn’t,” I admit, and I mean it in more ways than one. “I’m glad you did.” Something about the way she says it makes it harder to keep my distance. We sit down. I met her friends and wonder where her boyfriend is, she mentioned having one but this seems like a friends only get together.
“So poker? I have to say I wasnt expecting to be gambling with strangers tonight when met Clara this morning” A couple of them laugh. Someone slides a stack of chips toward me like I’ve already agreed to stay. “Don’t worry,” Clara says, leaning back in her chair, easy, confident. “We’re gentle with newcomers.” “Are you?” I glance at the cards as they’re dealt, then back up at her. “That’s disappointing.” It lands lightly, just enough to blur the line between a joke and something else. The game starts. Cards flick across the table, chips clink, conversations split and overlap. It’s easy to fall into it the rhythm, the small decisions, the pretending. But every now and then, I catch her looking at me. Not by accident. Not avoiding. And I don’t look away. I hold it just a second longer than I should, like waiting to see if she’ll fold first. Let it settle. Let her feel it. It’s subtle. It always is. A tilt of my head, the smallest shift in my expression, the kind of attention that doesn’t ask. A different kind of game, running quietly alongside this one. I know exactly what I’m doing. That’s the part I don’t say out loud. Because this isn’t something resurfacing. It’s not some forgotten version of me clawing its way back. This has always been here. Quiet. Controlled. Patient. Waiting for the right moment to play. And maybe that’s why I came tonight. Not because I couldn’t ignore it. But because, for once… I didn’t want to.
The first few hands don’t matter.
That’s how it always starts people pretending the beginning isn’t already part of the outcome. It isn’t real gambling, not really. 5 Pounds just coins, small stacks passed between friends, the kind of game that’s more excuse than risk. Something to keep hands busy while the night decides what it wants to be.
Clara deals a little too carefully, like she’s still thinking about the mechanics more than the meaning of it. Her friends fill the gaps around her easily enough laughing, talking, moving chips like it’s just something to pass time with. But she doesn’t quite disappear into them. She keeps coming back into focus. And she does not have a good poker face either.
Two cards in front of me. Nothing special. Nothing dramatic. Just information I don’t need to force into being something else. That’s the thing about poker most people miss. You don’t win by being right all the time. You win by not needing to pretend when you’re not.
Someone bets early. Small. Almost polite. Another calls. Clara hesitates before she matches it. Long enough for me to. I call as well. Not because I’m interested in the hand. Because I’m interested in how she’s playing it. Or trying to.
The flop comes down. Three cards, face up in the middle of the table. The hand stops being private now. It becomes something everyone is allowed to misunderstand together. Clara looks at it for a moment too long.
Then folds. Too scared. Too new.
I watch her before I move. Not the board. The way she’s holding herself slightly still, like she’s trying not to look at me
I raise. Not big. Not dramatic. Not test. A statement.
Clara looks up immediately this time. “You’re not really a beginner, are you?” one of her friends says, half-laughing. I don’t look at them.
“That depends what you think a beginner is.”
Clara folds her hands in front of her chips.Doesn’t speak. But she doesn’t look away from me either. That matters more than anything said out loud.
“Where did you learn to play like that?” she asks, quieter now. It’s not curiosity dressed as conversation. It’s something else trying not to sound like itself yet. I don’t answer straight away. Not because I don’t know. Because I don’t want to give her something too neat. “I used to play,” I say finally. “That’s all.” It isn’t. But it’s enough for now. She looks at me like she’s filing that away somewhere it won’t sit comfortably. Not suspicious. Just aware there’s more there than I’ve offered.
The next card comes and goes. The hand tightens, then breaks. A couple of folds. A quick call. Then it’s over before anyone really leans into it.
I win it. Clean enough that there’s no debate, no drama just coins sliding my way and a few half-laughs from the table. “Okay,” one of her friends says, shaking their head. “That was quick.” I smile, collecting the pot. Clara doesn’t say anything at first.I push my chair back. Stand. Let the moment settle.
“I’m getting us a victory drink,” I say, like it’s already decided. Clara tilts her head slightly.
“Us?” she repeats. I glance back at the table. I have her where I want her and she didn’t catch my bluff. Then at her.
“Of course its my thank you to everyone for letting me crash your gambling night” Everyone seems pretty excited by the free round, she nods once, a little late.
“Right,” she says.
She comes to the bar with me. We end up side by side in the crowd, close enough that I’m aware of it in a way I probably shouldn’t be.
I order too many drinks without really thinking it through. Pints, cocktails, more than I can realistically carry back. She stays next to me while I tap my card. That’s when her eyes drop to my hand.
The ring.
It lands immediately. Not emotionally. Structurally. Like something clicking back into place that I’d momentarily loosened. “So,” she says, casual, like she’s just continuing conversation. “Your fiancé.”
I feel it before I respond the slight tightening of attention, the automatic correction. My hand doesn’t move away from the bar, but I become aware of it in a different way, like I’m suddenly holding something I’m not supposed to forget exists. “He’s good,” I say after a moment. “We’ve been together a long time. We’ve built something really special.”
As I say it, part of me watches her reaction. The other part registers how clean it sounds. Too clean for what I’m doing standing here with her.
She nods, not questioning it. If anything, she looks reassured by the answer.
“He sounds important,” she says.
“He is,” I say. And that part isn’t complicated.
Which is exactly why this feels wrong in a way I don’t want to examine too closely. I shift my weight slightly, turning it back before it settles.
“You mentioned a boyfriend,” I say.
“Yeah,” she replies easily.
“What’s he like?” She glances down at the drinks being lined up, like she’s thinking more about logistics than meaning. “He’s nice,” she says. “Reliable. Easy.” There’s nothing in her tone that suggests anything complicated about it. Nothing that suggests she’s doing anything other than answering a question of a new girl friend.
The bartender finishes the order. I take in how many glasses there are and let out a quiet breath through my nose. I’ve overdone this. Not just the drinks.
She immediately steps in, picking up a couple without hesitation, like it’s obvious she should help. Our hands brush when we both reach for the same glass. I don’t react. Neither does she. But something in me tightens anyway an internal, almost irritated voice cutting in: this is exactly how things start to drift if you don’t pay attention.
She still looks entirely normal. Relaxed. Friendly. Present in a way that assumes none of this carries weight beyond tonight. That makes it worse.
We turn back toward the table together, carrying too much between us.