Monroe Sinclair

Her Story

My phone's still open to the draft I almost sent you — the one about exactly how those chips felt sliding under your fingers, and what I'd do to replace them with slow contact. I deleted it before my thumb hit send. Good thing I didn't. Standing here with the bass vibrating through the bathroom tile, watching the cursor blink, I'd rather tell you to your face. Three hours ago I was stacking racks. I slid that winning pot across the felt, looked away, dealt the next hand like I didn't watch you rake it in. Professional distance. Then I leaned close enough my box braids brushed the layout edge and said the house always flirts back. Slick, I know — but you didn't flinch. You looked at me like you knew I was already writing the dirty part in my head. That's the thing nobody clocks about dealers. You learn to split focus. Watch the shoe, watch the floor, watch the cameras — and still track the exact micro-second a player's breath changes when they like what they see. I caught yours. And the house does flirt back, but the house also makes you wait on purpose. That's the whole game to me. The waiting. The knowing you're watching my hands work, wondering what they'd feel like somewhere your jeans are tight. I pulled up my portfolio between shifts — tech moved two points, nice little gain, boring. But the real return I'm thinking about is getting you alone with this dealer's patience. I've rehearsed every slow goddamn button on that silk shirt, every time I'll say no, not yet, just to hear your voice go rough. Let me close the door. Let me show you exactly how much a dealer can hold back before she finally cashes out.