crazy eights

My parents owned a cabin in the mountains.  It was amazing;  the most enormous stone fireplace I had ever seen, an oldy-old-school stove, hardwood floors, beadboard walls, no insulation, tall ceilings, spider-infused bathroom.  I loved it.

My father and I drove there during Spring Break of my senior year of college.  We burned up trees that had fallen during that winter's ice storm.  We drank horrible coffee from a can.  We stayed up late playing cards.

One of those card games stands out, not just among the other games, but like a scar on my brain.  We weren't talking about anything in particular; I don't even recall which game we were playing, Crazy 8's, maybe?  

It crept in like a fog, swirling around my feet, circling my knees, causing my heart to race.  And not a good kind of racing, the dear Jesus, what is this? get me out of here kind of racing.  I shifted in my seat, wickedly uncomfortable by the overwhelming sex of the room.

At that moment in my life, I had slept with my fiance, and since the time he was no longer mine, I had been with nobody.  I didn't want to be with anybody.  

I had never been in a room where the air was thick with sex and lust and want and something truly vile; I had no idea.

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