In Another Life

Perhaps if I had been born in a different time, a different place, I might have been a writer. My words like cards being dealt across a smooth oak table. I count 1, 2, 3, 4 -- 2, 2, 3, 4 -- 3, 2, 3, 4 -- 4, 2, 3, 4, as they gently glide to a stop in front of each reader. Occasionally one catches the air and flips over, exposing too much, or perhaps nothing at all. I put it back in the deck to be dealt again later, then replace the one on the table, for better or worse. The players are all different. One of them, as he walks away from the table, may feel cheated or broken. He may feel I stacked the deck against him. Another may leave the table no different than when he sat down. He may feel his time was wasted, or he may feel nothing at all. But the other... the other may walk away smiling... grinning... laughing...