My Solitaire Man

My Solitaire Man


He sits in a booth on the far side of the bar. To the untrained ear, he is silent. But my ear is trained, and even from here, over the hubbub of voices and laughter, I can hear the gentle slaps of cards as he plays his game of solitaire.

There are pint glasses all around him. As I approach, I stop to count them. Seven, already, empty of even the last dregs at the bottom. Jack has never liked waste.

As always, I slip into the booth opposite him. He does not look up. I watch his face intently as he moves a card, turns one over, his brow furrowing in concentration. My heart aches for him – he wants to win so badly.

I reach out to touch his hand, almost letting our fingers connect, but I don’t want to disturb him. Instead, I bask in the warmth that radiates from his skin. It is a warm night, but I am still cold. I can see from his face that he is hot in this stifling room – his cheeks are flushed and his eyes are sleepy. But there is still an intent glint in his eye – Jack has wanted to win this game for a long time.

It is a fruitless pursuit. He is missing a card. I know this, and he knows this. He lost it just before he began playing, a single game, every single night. He does not wonder where it has gone, he knows where it is. I know where it is. But still, he continues to play the game, laying his cards in overlapping lines that point in ragged lengths to his chest as he bends over the table. He does not look up, look at me.

Look at me. I say the words over and over, but he doesn’t look up, he doesn’t even hear me. I kneel on the blue, cushioned seat of the booth, lean over the table, my fingers grasping his cheeks, stroking the long over-grown stubble. I shout his name over and over until I am hoarse, my voice choking up as I struggle to lift his head. Look at me, Jack.

He never looks up, he never shows he has heard me, or felt me there. He is immovable, his lips parted in concentration as he runs his eyes over the cards intently, taking his time, strategizing the game. Look at me, Jack.

If he would look at me, I could tell him I love him. That I am not really gone. That I am here, I have always been here, I am here every night to sit with him and say these words. Look at me, look at me, Jack.

He has played this game every night that he thinks I am not here. It is funny to hear him tell people that he has ‘lost’ me. If he would only look at me, I could tell him he was not that careless, he has not misplaced me. I am here. I am here, look at me, Jack.

On the table in front of me I place his missing card. I push it towards him, I want him to take it, so he can finish his game. He plays so intently, thinking that if he can only finish this game, he will find me again. I will not be ‘lost’, I will be here, as I am, if only he would look at me. I press the card against his skin, try to place it in his hands, but he does not see. I try, and my tears flow again as I call his name. Look at me, Jack.

Eventually the game ends. He finishes his last pint, and he gets up to leave. I stand with him, reminding him to button his coat, cordially withdrawing as he turns away from me. But as he passes me, towards the doors, I cling to him, press my lips to his cheek, cry his name. Look at me, Jack!

But he is gone, and I am alone. I swallow my tears and start to follow him home, picking up the missing Queen of Hearts from the floor where it has fallen, where he has left it. I will try again to give him tomorrow night. I will try every night until he finds it. I will be there to help him play, until the day he sees me. My solitaire man.

Look at me, Jack