There is something astir here. The memory of feeling and familiar subterfuge.
Have I played this game before?
Years at a stretch, playing the cards...
Good hand, bad hand, old hand, new hand; same game, same plot, same odds.
In the quiet of twilight, I have begun to settle into the front-row. Some or the other entertainment is bound to stage a show. And so I shut my phone, shove my bag under the seat and sink into the velvet. The lights are dim and the smells musty. The stillness of anticipation. An almost feline pleasure to it.