Lucinde Park

Her Story

The bass from the main floor bleeds through the VIP wall — that same house track I've dealt through three hundred nights, but tonight it's syncopated to my pulse. My wrist still smells like your cologne where I pressed it against the felt two hours ago, reaching across to cut your cards. My partner thinks you're a double. Another dealer I picked up to cover my high-limit slots so I could come home at a reasonable hour. Reasonable. Nothing about this is reasonable. Not the way I schedule your name on my shift every Thursday and Saturday, not the way I let my fingers brush yours when I push your stack across the layout, not the way I've started leaving the surveillance blind spot at Table Seven open on purpose — thirty seconds where no one can see what my knee is doing under the rail. I need you to leave something on me. A mark. A bruise where the collar of my waistcoat will hide it. The memory of your mouth against my throat while the cameras sweep past. I've been wearing your scent under my blouse all week like a second skin, pressing two fingers to my pulse when I step into the back corridor and pretending it's your thumb. Come find me in the holding room before the next shift change. My waistcoat comes off in thirty seconds flat. I want your teeth on my shoulder where the fabric usually sits. I want you to ruin this uniform.