Casino, part one?

He had made a series of unfortunate decisions that day, beginning with how he dressed himself in the morning. An extra baggy blue plaid short sleeve shirt --the last button undone to show off the new gold chain he had gotten for Christmas-- pleated front tapered leg khakis from JC Penny's, and white Reebok court shoes.

He had spent 20 minutes in front of the mirror with a bottle of hair gel and a comb, trying to get his hair just right. That was ten minutes more than he usually took, and when he was finally satisfied he made a mental note not to go to the Supercuts on Third again. That queer stylist he got stuck with last time always made him uncomfortable. How he took too long for the hair cut, like he was lingering on purpose, or how he seemed to fuss just a little too much when he was brushing off the smock. But it wasn't a homo thing, he said to himself, he had no problem with the gays, it was just that Monica, his preferred stylist, always did a better job. Well, what did it matter who cut his hair last time? He always managed to make it look good with some extra gel. And today, he told himself, he looked good.

His general appearance was the first of his series of unfortunate decisions that day. The next, which led into several more, was going to the casino with his step father. It had seemed like a good decision this time because he had been playing cards with his friends on Tuesday nights lately, and they all agreed that his was the best poker face of them all. But poker with your buddies is not the same as poker at the casino, and by mid afternoon he had lost around $300.

This casino didn't even serve free drinks, only the soda was free, and drowning his sorrows from gambling was rubbing salt in his wounded pride. The more it cost him to drink, the more it reminded him of how much he had lost, which made him want to drink more. He had ordered a $17 Casino-tini once before deciding to switch to the more affordable Miller Lites, the number of which he had had, he had long since lost count. He had left his stepfather was out on the floor to come sit at this bar. The last time he had seen him was at the blackjack tables, chatting with the couple from up North seated next to him.

Bleary eyed, he looked out at row upon row of slot machines and cursed his bad luck at the tables earlier. He would try playing a few slots next, he decided, in order to win back some of his losses. Just as soon as he got another beer. As he turned around in his seat to order, he noticed a blonde woman standing next to him, waiting for the bartender's attention. "You don't sound like you're from don-cha-kno-Wisconsin," was the pickup line he found himself deciding on.

He made a pair of unfortunate decisions in hitting on this woman, one of which he could not have known about, and the second of which was entirely his fault. His company, or so he found himself saying, was a scientific research company located in Florida that worked with fuel cell technology, and he was a 49 percent owner (his father owning the remaining 51 percent.) The blonde woman was able to converse on this topic for several minutes, and intelligently, he thought, which was not something he expected. In trying to impress women by telling stories about his scientific technology company, he had inadvertently chosen what was --with all likelyhood-- the sole female aerospace engineer in the casino.

The second in the pair of unfortunate decisions was that he had forgotten to look at this woman's left hand. Sitting clearly upon her ring finger was an engagement ring: a large blue sapphire flanked by smaller stones. On either side of the engagement ring were matching wedding/anniversary bands: white gold with inlaid diamonds. He only noticed these after the woman casually mentioned, "Oh, I've never been here before, but my husband came up here for his bachelor party and had a great time."

Suddenly, he found the desire to try his luck at the slot machines.