She glanced at her rearview mirror. The car behind her was closer than it should be, at this hour: she'd left the casino at midnight and it hadn't taken five minutes to Hamilton Holder Street. She slowed down, for the only thing that kept Trinidadians from reaching 100 mph in the block between the Foreshore and the avenue: a sleeping policeman–the only kind Trinidad seemed to have. The car behind her slowed, too. In her wing mirror, she saw another vehicle coming up fast in the other lane, seemingly intent on passing both these slowcoaches: he took the bump at a reckless speed.
For a moment, she thought about rolling her window down to shout at him, but let it go: the night had been too good to allow a passing idiot to ruin it. She grinned, remembering the waiter's smile when she tossed him a $50 chip. She didn't play to win as much as to enjoy the entertainment the money provided. She'd never lost more than her self-imposed Saturday night $700 maximum and, two or three nights a year, she'd win big, maybe $5K; but $15K for her for the year compared with up-to-$700 multiplied by the other 49 Saturday nights proved the casa was always ahead. If you thought you could beat the odds, you weren't thinking clearly.
And Dana had been thinking clearly all her life.She'd watched some of her friends and family forge long-lasting romantic relationships but she'd seen far too many more end unhappy. She'd been tempted a couple of times but, as a young lawyer divorcing more couples than a priest of her call would marry, she knew the marriage odds were even less favourable than casino ones. She had no unsatisfied yearning for children: her nephews and nieces answered that need; and could be returned without notice. She was married to her career; and it treated her better than any lover could, over the long term.