thimbles gamble
The worn leather of the table felt rough beneath my calloused fingers, the scent of stale tobacco clinging to the air. My opponent, a man with eyes like chips of ice, stared intently at the thimble in his hand, its brass worn smooth with years of use. The game was simple, a gamble of chance and skill. Each thimble concealed a tiny, polished stone, one marked with a single dot. The objective: to guess which thimble held the marked stone. The stakes were high, but the lure of a quick fortune was a potent draw.The dealer, a woman with a voice like gravel, shuffled the thimbles with practiced ease. A hushed tension filled the room as she placed the thimbles before us, each identical, each a potential key to wealth.My gaze flicked from one thimble to the next, my mind calculating odds, searching for a tell, a flicker of movement that might betray the hidden stone. The pressure mounted, a vise squeezing my chest. I could feel the sweat beading on my brow, the gamble a stark reminder of the risk I was taking.With a deep breath, I chose. My finger hovered over the thimble, its brass cool against my skin. A moment of agonizing suspense, then the dealers hand, quick and precise, lifted the chosen thimble.The stone lay revealed, its surface smooth and unblemished. No mark. My stomach clenched, the taste of disappointment bitter on my tongue. The gamble had cost me, the thimble a cruel reminder of the fickle nature of fortune.I left the table, the sound of coins clinking a stark contrast to the emptiness I felt inside. The thimble game, a sirens call, had lured me in, only to leave me with nothing but the bitter aftertaste of defeat. Yet, the allure of the gamble remained, a persistent whisper promising another chance, another roll of the dice. And perhaps, just perhaps, next time, the thimble would hold the key to victory.