Black or Red?

I stand by the roulette table and, for the first time in my life, it occurs to me that I have something with which to gamble. This, in itself, is a shock. The chips are cold hard and smooth in my hands.

People place their bets; numbers, colours, intakes of breath as the wheel spins, gasps when small wins are made, groans when little losses take place. They place their bets. They come and go. They scare me, so sure in what they are doing do they seem.

I have no idea what I am doing, even though I now recognise the value of these chips.

There is no way I can pick a number on which to lay this weight in my hands. There is no way I am even able to choose a colour. Red or black, red or black, red or black? One must surely win; this is a universal law, is it not?

But to me, the red and the black are both losers, and I wonder, as people continue to come and go, and I stand in a paroxysm of despair, why I am the only one who sees this.