Split
The bare walls, and mahogany planks devoid of footprints, shiver, a withdrawal of sorts from the angelic rush of black and white keys, warming fumes of blueberry pie, and pounding of nails in boards.
The last U-Haul box drops on the carpet. Cars roar by, bass speakers rattling the windows. Three frozen trays spin in the microwave before they’re abandoned on the table, untouched.
In the dark, a whisper, where’s daddy?
The cards glide out of the shoe, snapping against the green felt. Ashes nearly singe his eyebrow as he drifts above the chips.
“Sir? Wake up. Hit or Split?