The fire in his eyes had gone long before this point. He'd started, like they all do, full of piss and vinegar, and then been worn down by the grind. Like they all are.
But every so often, once in a month of Sunday's blue moon, they'd gain that fire back for a night. A pretty girl showing an interest, a death, or birth, just a lucky streak, suddenly the fire would be back, and they'd play amazingly, and start winning.
Those were the good nights. I so rarely get to break someone twice, after all. It's oh so sweeter.
No comments:
Post a Comment