At The Red Rock

At The Red Rock

Noel Laflin

3-10-18

She had a sad smile. It would come into focus occasionally when the smoke drifted away.

I held her place at the Keno machine while she ran off in search of more cigarettes; she had been methodically doing them in, one after another, as she tried to hit her numbers and score something big.

"I'll be right back," she said in a darkly husky Eastern European accent, tilting her chair against the kiosk.
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"There's a gift shop back that way," I offered, pointing across the lobby, past a coffee shop. "They probably sell them there."

"I get them for free," she smiled. "I will be back soon."

Free smokes, I pondered. She must be a local, and a regular at that, I reasoned. I bet she plays a lot. But I wonder why she chain-smokes?

True to her word, she soon returned, thanked me for holding her place, and lit up.

"I come here to relax," she said.

"Me too!" I said enthusiastically.

" My husband passed. I am so depressed." She took another drag from her cigarette.

And suddenly everything made sense.