Player's Remorse

“You don’t have to go.”

The smile, laced with sadness, braced by alcohol, wavered on his face. It was delicate; lovely. Like his fingers trailing along the side of the glass. She couldn’t let him leave. Not like this. Not without one more bittersweet twist of the knife. Just like old times. She knew it. He did as well.

“I think I do.”

“Why.”

Awareness that guests may be looking for her now tugged at the edge of consciousness.

“It’s late?”

“Pathetic.” She shrugged; squinted. He wasn’t even trying. She noticed now how very tired he appeared.

Irrevocably, “It’s late.”