Young Writers Society

Based on Love is a losing game by Amy Winehouse

[spoiler]

For you I was a flame

Love is a losing game

Five story fire as you came

Love is a losing game

Why do I wish I never played

Oh what a mess we made

And now the final frame

Love is a losing game

Played out by the band

Love is a losing hand

More than I could stand

Love is a losing hand

Self professed... profound

Till the chips were down

...Know you're a gambling man

Love is a losing hand

Though I'm rather blind

Love is a fate resigned

Memories mar my mind

Love is a fate resigned

Over futile odds

And laughed at by the gods

And now the final frame

Love is a losing game[/spoiler]

The Gods are Laughing with us

The fire is like nothing I’d ever seen before. A five story building lit up in ginger flames, sparks licking the sides of the rustic old scene like a cat commencing on its prey. From top to bottom, the scene is terrifically horrifying. There is no sound, no screams, no wails; there is only the crackle, snap, pop, of fire eating brick. The windows are blackened, glass shatters somewhere nearby. It is hard to concentrate on anything else besides the mesmerizing factory, smoking like the bonfire of the century.

You are sitting next to me, silent like the night. Your eyes are mirrors of the past—I see a million other fires burning hot and heavy in your irises, but I settle for putting my arm in the crook of yours, we will get through this together. You break off this mirage and hold me close, so I can smell your breath, like cinnamon. You kiss my warm cheek lightly, promising me something forbidden. I am ready to move on.

+++++

The wedding is quick and depressing. You are in for the instant gratification, the whorish women in their little white mini dresses—hardly qualifying as wedding attendees, rush to the side to catch a glimpse of the groom and bride, all the while, flicking their greedy little eyes on the pale pink bouquet. My night. You look bored as we walk up the aisle, and for every two seconds that you look away from my eyes, I am reminded of your proposal.

You were not yourself. On the beach in France, the white sand caressing my bare feet, you kneeled into the pools of crystals and sing me words of emptiness. The ring was the size of every fragment of my heart, but it boded well with the black satin evening wear. As you smiled forlornly and caress my cold hands, I saw that you had thrown caution to the winds in a vain attempt to be romantically inclined, and I knew the mistake was all mine.

+++++

The band was playing some cracked-out jazz, the lyrics entirely inappropriate, but a reflection of our doomed relationship. You sip your third martini as I repeat the words in my head over and over—

Why do I wish I never played

Oh what a mess we made

And now the final frame

Love is a losing game

The gin is cold and refreshing as the waiter caters my every need with the look of true pity. From the corner of my eye, I see you staring into the eyes of another woman, and from there, the fires from past ashes.

+++++

Later, you gamble ferociously. Every bet that you lose makes you happier. I can only guess why. You are a man who is used to losing—with money, it is easy to give up. With me, it is a trifle more difficult.

I know you are faithful. As you throw your chips in, you seem to say—yes, this is my life as you see it presently. I gambled on my predictability, I lost, and now I pay the price. But as long as the Tanqueray is served proportionally to the wells of bitterness that I foster, I can watch the others cash in without any sort of regret.

+++++

Though I'm rather blind

Love is a fate resigned

Memories mar my mind

Love is a fate resigned

The band—some 90’s version of the Bangles, playing as if through some heavy static—is reading my mind. Their eyes see all. Even with the bloodshot look of women who are past their prime by twenty-two, they have seen more of life than I can ever hope to. Then can expect more, because there are no strings attached to them—they know they are fated to play second-rate jazz their entire, menthol-infested lives. They can leave one day and appear in Bangkok the next, because no one will miss them. It is the freedom that I lost, when I found you in your larval, rhetoric stage. You asked me to marry you, and I complied, because, afterall, that is where the end of my road lies.

We are all blind, in ways.

+++++

There is something so final about fire. It can burn through the night, leaving nothing behind but a transformed, pile of what-ifs. There is no going back beyond the red-glowing coals, there are no regrets. Fire is intensely satisfying.

We both know this all too well. From the hilltop looking out on the city, the helicopters, the news stations, all the little insignificant others who waltz the city, mourning for the loss and the fire—we know better than the lot of them. Because for once we are in control, for once we have our destiny like the PASS GO card on a game of monopoly. We can stay hidden like rats in a sewer, or we can illuminate the night, and forget anything and everything.

The gods are laughing on their mountain Olympus, past the simpering clouds; but our laughter is the thunder that cracks the earth.