I was never any good at Baccarat.
Perhaps if I’d stuck only to playing punto banco, a variant of the game not requiring skill or strategy, I might have had better luck. Or perhaps if you’d agreed to play as well, it wouldn’t have mattered. But you sat alone, and aloof, nursing your boredom on the rocks while I made excuses. For my lack of ability. For the lack of us.
Ice melts in alcohol. Just as the odds of winning are always in favor of the bank. You take another sip of this watered down existence we have.
And I fold.