That night I spent 1580 points on a girl. When she smiled, her eyes curved into crescents, lively as a young deer.

The dice rolled with a thunderous sound. She lost and was supposed to say "I love you" ten times, but instead she leaned close to my ear and whispered it twenty times in a soft voice. At the end she tilted her head and smiled, pouring me a full glass of wine.

Later she stuck a cigarette in my mouth, still marked with her lipstick print, and the spot she'd bitten still held her warmth.

"Big brother, is my mouth sweet?"

I suddenly froze. It had been so long—so very long—since anyone had told me "I love you."

Even though I knew this was just a transaction, in that moment the warmth felt real, like someone had draped a coat over me on a cold night.

When I drank until the room spun, she took my glass away, linked her arm through mine to keep me from drinking more, touched my head gently, and let me rest it on her lap.

In that moment I couldn't tell what was real and what was fake, and I didn't even care if it was all just an act.

Being cared for, being protected—that feeling was too precious.

As for love or not, it suddenly didn't seem so important anymore.