fragmented means broken
"Are you playing your lonely game again?" His tone was always gentle, a friendly teasing.
I had been shuffling, dealing out cards for hours, round after round of solitaire. I did it when I needed to think, to relax, to sort something out, to find a solution to a problem, when I needed to get away from it all, and yes, when I was lonely.
There was always someone on their way over, we were constantly together. But I was still lonely.
There is something soothing, relaxing, about the tangible feel of the cards in your hands, well-worn, the newness smoothed off enough that they no longer slid halfway across the room when they'd been broken properly in, the repetitive motions of dealing, sorting, gathering, shuffling, the recognition of the patterns of cards when they had not been properly shuffled seven times between each hand, the slow yellowing of the edges as they're handled over time.
There is nothing lonely in a deck of cards. Each card has its place with the others, each card meshes well with any other. They fit in your hand, comfortably, like a broken-in boot, like a torn sweater.
Sometimes, the end of each round would give me a card I needed to see, something I could derive a meaning from for the rest of the hands, or the rest of the night, or the rest of the relationship.
Even now, when I drift back to solitaire, through the quiet shuffle on the computer, I hear his soft voice asking "Are you playing your lonely game again?"
I'm playing solitaire, but I'm not lonely.
I hear him, every time. It is not loneliness.
Funny, the things you keep with you.
I had been shuffling, dealing out cards for hours, round after round of solitaire. I did it when I needed to think, to relax, to sort something out, to find a solution to a problem, when I needed to get away from it all, and yes, when I was lonely.
There was always someone on their way over, we were constantly together. But I was still lonely.
There is something soothing, relaxing, about the tangible feel of the cards in your hands, well-worn, the newness smoothed off enough that they no longer slid halfway across the room when they'd been broken properly in, the repetitive motions of dealing, sorting, gathering, shuffling, the recognition of the patterns of cards when they had not been properly shuffled seven times between each hand, the slow yellowing of the edges as they're handled over time.
There is nothing lonely in a deck of cards. Each card has its place with the others, each card meshes well with any other. They fit in your hand, comfortably, like a broken-in boot, like a torn sweater.
Sometimes, the end of each round would give me a card I needed to see, something I could derive a meaning from for the rest of the hands, or the rest of the night, or the rest of the relationship.
Even now, when I drift back to solitaire, through the quiet shuffle on the computer, I hear his soft voice asking "Are you playing your lonely game again?"
I'm playing solitaire, but I'm not lonely.
I hear him, every time. It is not loneliness.
Funny, the things you keep with you.