The cards fell like rain, but my eyes followed them, steady. Around the poker table, their laughter was sharp, like the clink of coins. I smiled, not with ease, but with the grace of someone accustomed to watching from the edges. My hijab, a soft weight, did not belong here, but neither did their assumptions. I bet the same as they did, though they couldn't know how each chip was a small rebellion. The moment stretched, the air thick with tension, and when I won, they stared. The silence tasted sweet. Then the game resumed, as if nothing had changed.
Wasima Khan is a writer and poet from The Hague. Her poetry has appeared in About Place, Third Wednesday, Hawai’i Pacific Review, and elsewhere.