I’ve been married seven times. It was the third woman who broke me. Melba was her name. I met her at a blackjack table in Vegas. I couldn’t see her through all the smoke, and I’m pretty sure she was high on pills when she agreed to marry me.
Don’t get the wrong idea, we didn’t get married in Vegas the night we met. We had a five year relationship that ended when she decided she didn’t want to have kids, and that wasn’t going to work for me.
It’s not enough for me to emotionally ruin my woman, I need to also feel like I’ve ruined a young person’s future. That’s the legacy I want to leave the world. Far in the future, I want another damaged person to run around and fuck shit up. And if she wasn’t going to give birth to anything, what was I going to do, go to a Boys & Girls Club and ruin some poor kid there? Sounds like a lot of work.
So she left.
They all leave, but Melba left me in the worst shape.
Goddamn you, Melba. Goddamn you. I should’ve known it wasn’t going to work when she told me to surrender on 16. The dealer had a 3, Melba. All you had to do was sit there and wait for the dealer to bust.
There’s no need to surrender, Melba. Let the cards be dealt, honey.