The old man, Mr. Henderson, he just… wasn’t there. Again. Third week in a row. Not even a phone call to say he wouldn’t make it. Just a gaping hole at the table, a pile of chips waiting for a player that never shows. Mr. Henderson, always smelled faintly of peppermint and old books, always had some obscure fact about the Civil War to share, whether you wanted it or not. Now, just… gone. It’s just me, Frank, and Mrs. Gable now. Used to be eight of us. Eight regulars, same time every Tuesday, same cheap coffee, same endless small talk about the weather and how much the grandkids cost. Now, it’s three. Three old folks, staring at each other across a too-big table, the silence stretching out like a worn-out rubber band. You can practically hear the clock ticking, louder than the cards shuffling. Frank, he’s got that cough. The kind that rattles your chest and makes you wonder if he’s gonna make it through the hand, let alone the week. He tries to play it off, a little chuckle, a weak wave of the hand. But I see the way his eyes water, the way he leans back in his chair like it takes all his strength just to sit upright. And Mrs. Gable, bless her heart, she’s losing it a bit. Called me “George” twice last night. My name’s Arthur. Always has been. Her husband, George, passed five years ago. It’s not just the game, see? It’s… everything. This used to be my Tuesday. My thing. After Mary went, the house got so quiet, you could hear the dust motes dancing in the sunbeams. This game, it was a lifeline. A reason to iron a shirt, a reason to shave, a reason to… be. Something to look forward to. Now, it’s just another reminder of what’s gone. What’s going. We used to have arguments, good spirited ones, about who cheated last week, about the rules of gin rummy, about politics even, though Mary always told me to steer clear of that. Now, we just play. Quietly. Too quietly. The only sound is the cards, the occasional rattle of Frank’s cough, and the clinking of Mrs. Gable’s teacup. She still insists on her Earl Grey, even though the community center only has instant coffee and tap water. A small rebellion, I suppose. I don’t even enjoy the cards anymore. Not really. It’s just… something to do. To fill the time. Like watching paint dry, or waiting for the kettle to boil. You just sit there, hand after hand, and you try to remember what it felt like to actually care whether you won or lost. I don’t. Not a lick. And what happens when it’s just me and Frank? Or me and Mrs. Gable? Or just… me? Do I still show up? Sit at the big empty table, dealing cards to myself? The thought of it, it’s not sad, not exactly. More like… a dull ache. Like a toothache you’ve had for so long you almost forget it’s there until you bite down wrong. The young fellas at the center, they try to be nice. “You need a hand, Art?” they say. “We got a poker game going on Thursdays.” But it’s not the same. They play too fast, too loud, too… aggressive. And they talk about things I don’t understand. “Cryptocurrency.” “NFTs.” Sounds like something from a science fiction movie. My world, it’s… smaller. And it’s shrinking. Every Tuesday. I think about Mr. Henderson. Hope he’s alright. Maybe he just found a better game. Somewhere with younger players, better coffee, less coughing. I wouldn’t blame him. Not one bit. This game… it’s a casualty, I guess. Just another one.