lap Himself. “Do you play, boy?” What I really want to do is smack the shit out of him for calling me ‘boy’ when I’m a thirty-two-year-old man, but instead, I offer a devious smile. “Sure do,” I say. Mark looks over at a bald man and tips his chin up. “Let him have your spot.” The table seems to go silent. I keep my expression calm as the bald man stares back at Mark with a blank expression. But he doesn’t have his eyes on lockdown. Anger sparks in his brown pools, and he looks at Mark much like how I really want to. Like he wants to kill him. It’s for the best really. He wasn’t a good poker player anyways if he couldn’t even keep his anger in check. Calmly, the man stands and places his cards down. Royal Flush. He would’ve won that round. I keep my face blank, not unveiling the smile that’s threatening to emerge. I would feel bad for him if he didn’t get off on hurting women. Who am I kidding? I wouldn’t feel bad at all. While Mark was burning his cigar on the waitress’s flesh, this bald man over here was adjusting himself. He wasn’t the only one, though, and I made sure to note every one of their faces for later. The man gives Mark and me one last look before walking off without a word. The valuable little lesson that came out of that embarrassing spectacle was that Marky-Mark here has power. Whatever weight he pulls, it’s enough to give him superiority over the common folk. Wonder how many little boys’ and girls’ lives it took to get that far. ““What’s your name, boy?” he asks. “Zack Forthright,” I lie easily. “Name’s Mark Seinburg. I’m sure you already know who I am, though. How long have you been playing poker?” Mark asks as they restart the game, brushing over his narcissism like the notion of me not knowing who he is isn’t an option. I know exactly who he 1s, but not for the reasons he thinks. “Since I was a kid,” I answer truthfully. My father was a professional poker player, and he taught me how to master a poker face. Something that has been crucial to my field of work. He’d sit me on his lap as a little boy, teaching me the game, and then show me his cards as he played with his friends. Testing me to see if I could keep a blank face. He lost a lot of games doing that. But he truly believed I wouldn’t learn how to master a poker face unless I knew what it meant to play the game. He’d whisper in my ear, point out my tells, and teach me how to not only read and understand facial expressions but microexpressions.