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‘Put on your costume and powder your face.’ I hastily highlight the streaks of red pen lining my makeup. I slip on the cap-n-bells, scribbled with periwinkle markers. A rough, crude attire—but it was simply the act I played, just as a good jester did. There was no doubt about the fact that I was a good jester. One of the best, yet by a hair’s breadth, outclassed by another.
And so, as the back-of-the-napkin sketch steps onto the stage, that ‘another’ already stands at the far side of the poker table. Blueprint’s eyes are fixed on the joker to her right while I lean over the riffraff, gazing longingly at the fellow mime.
There you are—finalized and orderly—clad in technical azure monochrome. I’m always in your shadow, even if only by the slimmest margin. Not that I mind… not at all. My heart flutters at the sight of your precision, even when everything you do is merely a reflection of another. And yet, when the blind is beaten and the round comes to an end, your gaze softens. I see you faintly glance over the jokers between us. You meet my eyes, just for a moment. You wave your lapis-blue glove gently, a smile curving your lips to match the arc of your lipstick, and a blush coats across my pale powder.
As the dealer calls the blind, the table buzzes with the energy of play. Cards shuffle and deal, the thrum of their movement syncing with the faint pounding in my chest. I pull my focus away from you—away from your quiet grace—just long enough to consider my next move. A glance at my hand, a fleeting thought flitting across my mind like static.
What would you do? Simply copy, precisely and deliberately. Wherever you move, you adapt. That’s what makes you special. And even if my copies are alive in their imperfection, others must move to make room for me. And yet, you don’t move. You stay fixed at the back-most row of the table, almost deliberately right in my sights.
The dealer begins to collect the cards, and I watch you from the corner of my eye as you straighten your ruff and adjust your cap. Professional. Poised. Perfect. I wonder if you’d do the same if we were alone.
If there were no one else but us.
If I could just be near you, without it all falling apart.
And that’s the very thing. One day, I’d been placed right beside you, and the very next ante, we were pulled apart. The round was over, the others couldn’t match the bet, and they busted. That moment, the clutter of my thoughts fell silent. All I could focus on were your dusky eyes, staring back at mine with that same enamored attention. You raised your palm, and I raised mine, interlocking our hands. Neither of us saw the other blink. All the while, not an inkling of progress was made. For jokers as vital as us, for a casino as cutthroat as this one, that was simply unforgivable.
You copy to your left, and I copy to my right. What remains is a copy of a copy—a brilliant, useless infatuation.
I’m snapped out of reverie once my pupils dilate back to reality. I clear my throat, ruffle through my scarlet curls and tighten my gloves, as a hint of frustration clouds my mind. The table between us is a world apart, and yet this is where we’re ‘meant to be’. I repeat after you with a hand in a ring gesture over my eye. Your backup dancer, your sideshow act. And if you came closer? If you traversed around the table to stand beside me? My eyes would still be set on that backmost rank, and you’d be nothing more than my aid. But you’re better than that—better than me—and what good is being beside the woman you love if you’re forced to turn the other cheek?
I shouldn’t blame you. I shouldn’t blame myself. And still you stay, standing still and firm. Perhaps that is how things must be. One of us must always ignore the other. I can’t imagine with certainty how you’d feel if our roles were reversed. But as much as I idolize you, our natures are the same. I fell in love because you were my adoring mirror, the comforting presence that without a word, understood everything about me. I imagine you’d be yearning just as I am, and the thought only weighs down my heart. And so, the table separating us remains as an impenetrable fence.
A grip tightens on my shoulder all of a sudden. dragging me across the floor. Men in crisp, dark suits, with garish joker caps sprouting from their heads, crowd around the reserved joker slots. Our backs are turned, and an amber curtain is drawn behind our backs. I’d hardly paid attention, but now I realize it; the Amber Acorn boss blind had begun. Now, I couldn’t even see the table. I couldn’t see the cards, the chips, the flashing lights around us, only…
You.
Our gazes meet once again. My breath catches in my throat, resisting the urge to tug or scrape at the chalky fabric of my uniform. Your face flushes a faint, deep violet hue. The redness of your cheeks mixes with your lustrous cerulean, tinting the same color as that accursed blind. Yet, I’ve found comfort in that violet hue—while my colleagues groan, I think only of you. Your glove traces the edge of my cheek, painting my canvas. My own hand reaches out, our fingertips meeting, the contact sending heat coursing through my veins. (and I sense it’s not just because Burnt Joker just so happens to be behind me.)
Slowly, my lips part as we lean closer concurrently. It’s exactly what I’ve longed for. My purpose is to be purposeless with you—our victory is in failure, and our jackpot is when the world busts around us. And as my mind slips into blissful vacuity, I grin and press my lips against yours, our flushed noses meeting together in perfect union.
Honk.