Jack of clubs.

Two of spades.

Seven of diamonds.

Trump! An Ace of hearts.

I held the last card between my index and middle finger momentarily pondering its significance. Flipping it over in my hand, I studied the intricate blue-on-white pattern for a little over a minute before deftly placing the card, pattern facing in, at the pinnacle of the tower with the other three. Pausing to admire my handiwork, I considered the notion that somewhere in the sylvan halls of history, Donald Trump and I probably shared some genetic lineage. It occurred to me then that we had three very important things in common: we both had a penchant for building ridiculously grandiose structures (although in my case grandiose ruefully extends no further than this pack of 52 dog-eared cards), we both have outrageously unflattering hairstyles (anybody ever seen a chubby Spaniard with a shoulder length perm on the cover of Vogue?) and we both hold precarious relations with our womenfolk (Consuela… my very own Mujer Loco). She’d stormed out the rickety screen door of this place, her parent’s beach house, well over an hour ago. It was this event that triggered the mental retreat unto my tabletop version of Trump Tower.  

A gust of chill wind through the rickety screen door caught me off guard, carrying with it the thick earthy scent of rain-pelted wilderness and an intention to summarily obliterate my carefully constructed tower of cards. I sighed loudly, quite aware of my solitude in this pokey, dilapidated shack. Pulling the nape of my sweater tight around my neck, I turned to the task of rebuilding my flattened fortress of cards all the while peering out at the darkness beyond the screen door. Where the fuck is she? It’s freezing out there.   

A shock of rain resumed its dampening work where an earlier barrage had left off and I could barely make out the rush of the crashing waves only some 200 metres out front of the house; the thunderous reverberations against the tin roof tensely interjected with the sound of an old cassette player blaring out the rolling synthesizer lines of Radiohead’s Everything in its place. On top of all this, the silent roar of my own thoughts, two fearsome sentences pounded against my skull: you won’t trump me this time, she-devil, I’ve got every fucking card in the goddamn house and what have you got? A head full of feminine madness, a rain-soaked beach and clothes to match?

I was surprised to find when I finally looked up from my masterful work that she didn’t even have those anymore, standing naked in the doorway, Goosebumps set over every inch of her porcelain form. I admired the black gossamer strands of hair that clung desperately to her proud neck, delicate face and narrow shoulders. I could tell she’d been swimming by the way her chest quivered with the intensity of physical exertion and the deep purpling-blue discolouration of her areolas. She reached out across the table between us, towards a crumpled towel that hung awkwardly off my end of the rustic pine-wood slab. I wryly snared the peach coloured towel and pulled it beyond her immediate reach. Infuriated, she turned and smacked the middle right out of my tower of cards, her wicked mouth curling with glee even before the hapless structure collapsed. I stood up swiftly with a poorly feigned air of indignation, my mouth softened by a crooked smile. As I brought the towel around her shoulders, she blinked back the salty wetness from her eyes, our lips met and we both knew who had really been trumped. Right here in this run-down shack on a rain-soaked coast was the most valuable thing in the world…

 And for all his money, power and prowess, that famous man with whom I shared a distant lineage was never likely to find it.

[Image by CLG]