COMPLETE SUMMARY: Edward grew up with a strange condition called Asperger's, struggling all his life trying to figure it out emotions, tired and exhausted of society he ends up as a croupier in a casino, were he meets Bella, a gambler. But you know what they say about gamblers, they don´t care if they lose or win, they only want the thrill.

CHAPTER 1: CROUPIERS AND GAMBLERS

I exist in a world divided into two parts: the croupiers, those who stand behind; who look from the distance and are in charge—also are voyeurs of complicity, full of nothing and condemn to exist only to see people lose.

And then, there are the gamblers who are no different from the croupiers. The only difference is that they don't care. They don't care if they lose, they don't care if they win. Gamblers are dangerous.

That's why I do not gamble. EVER. But I don't care either.

"Eleven double? Ten, twenty-one… you win." See, the man in front of me is elated, he just won.

I like to feel the tacit pain, call me sadistic but I like their faces when they lose—maybe because it's easy for me to try to understand why they are so miserable when they have pained faces. But in reality... I don't care. Well, I didn't want to care anyway.

"Twelve… too high you lose."

"Eight. Another? Nine… Seventeen too low; you lose."

This man, in front of me, is not looking at me. He's imagining things; ways of how to lose his money. Like how a man imagines ways on how to make a woman cum. A beautiful woman. That has never happened to me.

You see, I have this condition, which is a curse and a blessing too. Asperger syndrome is so low-rated and not well-known that I can't just explain in a simple sentence what it is to other people.

But it's really simple, I tried to abstract my thoughts and I came up with this definition, this concept: emotionally blind.

"Edward, 'Ludenberg'." That's Max, the other croupier, giving me the keyword that means it's time to change croupiers—that my shift has ended—and to begin counting the winnings from my shift. I remove myself from the table and direct my languid body to the dresser.

My shift ends at 8pm sharp, which allows me to take the bus home at 8:15. I'm telling you this because it's important to this story. Before 9:30pm, I'm home—always—andmy rituals and routines are utterly important to my life, they put control over it.

My 'condition' is not that obvious to people—I try not to make it that obvious. And, nobody cares really. I'm always quiet. I function. I answer. I laugh when they tell a joke. I smile when I need to be polite. But I've learned all of these emotions from what others do. I copy them.

Ever since I was a kid, I was confused about what people wanted from me. That they cried and I didn't know why... I didn't event know that they were crying—like a physical disassociation disorder, but within emotions. I was blind and I was scared. My parents never bothered to treat my sickness, until first grade.

Honestly, I don't know how I've made it so far, I was always good in counting, I guess. My teacher Mrs. Marshall saw something different in me and talked to my parents about it. They made some tests and then after months and months of more awful tests, they came up with this type of autism. I didn't know if they were relieved or scared. I couldn't tell.

My mom was supportive, I guess. Sending me to a special school. But, honestly, I didn't fit. Even if the teachers were specialized, I still couldn't fit. So, I completed my education at home.

My mom was a stay at home mom; so she helped me with my education till I was 16. Then I was all by myself. I applied for high school and tried to go, but again, I didn't fit. So, I just gave up and kept learning at home. And by learning, I mean learning about emotions too.

It was really hard at first—really difficult. My mother cried every night because I just couldn't express emotions. Not because I didn't feel anything, but because I couldn't define one specific emotion and express it.

It's exactly like blindness. Imagine that you have never had been able to see; and then somebody tries to explain the color red to you… yes, that's how I felt. How I still feel.

I've resigned myself long ago to a life without empathy. I cared—I still do, I can't help it. I watch movies. I listen to music. I do everything a normal person does. Only to find out that emotions are repetitive. Fear, happiness, sadness, sorrow, excitation, curiosity, etc.

I know what these things are. I've learned to recognize them depending the structure of the face and how the eyes move. But sometimes it's really hard and exhausting to tell. So, now I just don't do it anymore. I try to ignore people and see the rest of the humanity like faceless beings.

I'm a croupier, but this is the story of a gambler. And like I said, gamblers are dangerous because they don't care.

I wake up at 6am, run for an hour while it's still dark in Seattle and until I see the sunrise. I feel something, I don't know what it is. I guess it's good. I guess it's something that I want to keep feeling. Maybe it's happiness, but I'm not sure.

I return to my house and shower, trying not to look myself in the mirror. You see I have these rituals. I have a list, and these rituals define my life in a very sad and pathetic way, but I need them:

1) Don't wear red on Fridays.

2) Drink Orange juice on Mondays, grape juice on Tuesdays, apple juice on Wednesdays, pineapple juice on Thursdays, and water on Fridays.

3) Don't put your shoes on the bed, only on a chair.

4) Always make my bed.

5) No clothes on the bed.

6) While taking a shower, wash hair 3 times, wash body 2 times. Use a different soap to wash my feet and use a different towel to dry my feet.

7) Brush my teeth 5 times a day.

8) Don't look at myself in the bathroom mirror after taking a shower (strictly only the bathroom).

In my life I've had many, many rituals. This neurosis had changed a little bit, but basically they're the same.

I need to eat something. Today is Wednesday. So it's apple juice; one glass—that's flexible, it's not limited, which means that I can change it, but I still prefer it this way—1 apple, scrambled eggs, 2 toasts and a cup of coffee taken with 2 cubes of sugar and no cream.

I dress myself and spend my morning reading, watching movies or listening to music. By 10:25am I head to work. I take my keys, my work ID, my sunglasses and I'm ready to go. My shift starts at 11am and ends at 8pm, with one hour lunch break.

Wednesday's are lazy days. Only 3 or 4 gamblers… Mrs. Jackson, the old lady who plays poker. Mr. Rodson, a man over thirty who plays blackjack. And Mr. Tshi who is about fifty years old and plays blackjack as well. Those are the regular ones. They never fail to make it. They're always there. And that makes me feel at peace. No change. Reliability. Something I don't have much of these days.

When I get to work, I see the three gamblers, plus one. A young woman. Beautiful, long dark hair, and that's all that I can tell.

"Table?" I ask Jasper, my manager. He just nods towards the table which the new woman is sitting at.

I stand in front of the table and say my monologue, "Good morning—or good day, depending on the time of the day—I'm Edward, I will be your croupier. Good luck." All that is said in my monotone voice because I don't have another way to say it. She looks at me and I nod. I start mixing the cards and then deal them on the table.

"Eight. Another?"

"No," she says.

"Ten. Another?" She nods.

"Ten. Too low, you lose."

Half an hour later, the woman has lost two thousand dollars. I try to look at her to try to figure out what she's feeling, but I see nothing. She looks at me and I think she's trying to communicate something to me, but I don't understand.

Two hours later, between winning and losing, the woman have lost a total of five thousand and four hundred dollars. She stands up, looks into my eyes and leans her body so that now she's standing in front of me with her face just inches from mine.

"You are a fucking robot." She looks at me, trying to find something that obviously is not there.

Robot… yeah, not likely! At least they don't feel a thing. I feel everything. I don't know what to say. I just stare and then I feel it… something… different in her eyes and in her expression, in the form of her body, in her voice. Oh her voice. Then I feel scared. Like from the time when Father took me with this middle-aged woman to 'make a man out of me'. I felt something then I had an orgasm. And I could tell that because my father told me so. It was the only thing my father taught me. Nothing more.

It was simple and quick. I wasn't really excited like my father told me I would be. I didn't even know what excited was. But now I felt... I don't know what it was, but it was better than sunrise and a warm breakfast. Better than a hot shower… even better than doing my rituals.

I'm not a retard—well, maybe only emotionally—but I knew that I liked her. I knew it was attraction. It's just that… it felt so different from the movies and other women that I've been with.

"No. I'm not," I say with sincerity.

"I know you're not." she takes a look at my ID, then at my face, and says really slowly, "Doucheward, it was a rhetorical question. God!"

Then she walks away to another table. She stayed here at the casino, she even ate here.

I am with Mr. Tshi, a really quiet man who was good for me. But I keep looking at the new woman. She was winning; and every time she won, she'd turn in my direction and… fuck! I don't know. I guess she was trying to tell me something. I was getting frustrated, so I just stop staring, hoping she would just go away.

At 8pm, when my shift ends, Max comes up and say "Ludenberg". I say my 'goodbyes' and go to my dresser. It was 8:10pm, I had five minutes to go outside, cross the street and wait for my bus. It was plenty of time if you ask me.

I'm walking by the door when I hear a women yelling at a croupier. I look over my shoulder to see the young woman walking towards me—or maybe the door. I stay there and when she stomps towards me, she looks me in the eye and yells.

"Fucking move! This fucking place is sucking me dry! Move, fuck it!" And I move, because even I know that she was yelling and not happy.

She exits the door and tries to call a taxi, but the street was empty. I just stood there. I try to figure out if she was pissed or tired or sad—or all of the above. She turned around and again her brown eyes trapped me in a non-existent world. A world with no name. I step outside and look at my clock 8:14pm, One minute, plenty of time to cross the street.

She asks me, "You have a car?" I was scared. Was this a rhetorical question too? I don't think so, I hope not.

"No."

"How do you go home?"

"Bus," is all I could possibly say, because I was confused and it has been a long time since I've had a non-work conversation.

"Really? You don't speak much, do you?"

"No?" And I say in a form of question because I don't know if it was the right answer.

"Shit, I need to go home like now! You have a cell phone? Mine is… it's just… not on me right now." I just stare.

"Do. You. Have. A. Cell phone?" Do I have one? No, I don't.

And in that exact moment my bus passes by. And I feel bad. Really bad. Not exactly aware of what kind of bad feeling it was… that's why I try to avoid things that are not in my control, because I have these… tantrums. These panic attacks, and I just… I lose it.

I start screaming and cursing and tearing my hair. It was all automatic like in the movies when something goes wrong. I try to sound conflicted, but I don't know if it was ok. She regards me with a different face that I couldn't figure out.

"What's wrong with you? It's just a fucking phone for Christ's sake!" I just blink.

"Shit! I can't go back to the casino; I will rip that croupier's head off if I go back."

"Why?" I ask with real, genuine curiosity.

"What? No, I was talking to myself. God, YOU ARE STUPID!" And I knew that she knew. And I felt something that was not good.

She starts walking on the sidewalk; and in evidence that I've lost the last bus, I follow her. I didn't even care where, I just do.