I fold. I fold. I fold. I fold. He’s starting to sound like a broken record or a Fatboy Slim album. He’s just being conservative with his chips, he tells himself. Better to lose it slowly than all at once. Of course, he’s getting restless, too. Is it time to just leave the table, pack up, and go home?
Ante. He looks at his watch first, and only then does he look at the cards. Hmmm… not tarot, but are they good enough to predict the future? He doesn’t fold, and one other person stays in. Should he raise? How much confidence does he have? All of a sudden, he wants to stay at the table and play this out. He raises, feeling a rush he hasn’t felt in a while and more nervousness than he had anticipated as he awaits a response from the opposite end of the table.