With great care, John placed the four of hearts atop his growing house of cards. The fragile structure shifted, and he waited with bated breath for it to collapse in a jumbled heap of colors and shapes. The swaying stack of cards held, and he inwardly breathed a deep sigh of relief. He only had a few cards to go, and the house would be complete.

This house of cards is not unlike my life, he reflected. A delicate balance between gravity and the friction between pieces, completely at the mercy of the elements.

He glanced at his watch. Three o'clock.

John picked up the next card from the deck, holding it up to the light. Seven of clubs.

One club for every year, he thought, as his rock-steady hand guided the card to form the next layer in his house of cards. One black clover leaf to represent every year of his marriage to Rita.

Now came the hard part. He drew the next two cards to form the angle on which the next level would rest. The four of diamonds and the six of hearts.

Steven and Julie, he thought. Steven was his four-year-old son, a diamond in the rough. Every day the boy grew more like his father. Julie was his daughter, six years old, keeper of the key to his heart. Daddy's little girl.

The cards blurred as hot tears welled up in his eyes, and he paused to blink them back. The children are always the ones who suffer most.

The cards joined the growing structure on the table, sliding into place as if guided by an unseen hand, held in place by invisible glue. Now for the next card.

A joker.

That's me, John mused, as he examined the card. Jester hat, curly boots, and an idiotic grin. Always the clown, smiling and laughing, pretending not to see what was obvious to everyone, hiding behind a smile. Only fooling himself.

His hand was seized with a palsy, and John set the card down until the shaking passed. He tipped a heavy glass, and burning amber liquid ran down his throat. John drained the glass and set it next to the empty bottle. He didn't often seek sanctuary in alcohol, but he needed it this morning.

John picked up the joker, his hand once again steady and strong. The joker joined the growing skyscraper of cards, towering above the tabletop like the gigantic buildings of the city he lived in. An urban microcosm, right here on my table. I wonder where Rita is?

He paused to puff on the cigar burning in the ashtray, pungent smoke curling upward in ever-changing shapes to join the pall hanging over the living room. If Rita knew I was smoking in here, she'd kill me. He almost laughed. She's killing me right now.

He returned the cigar to the ashtray and glanced at the clock. Three twenty. Where is she?

John selected the next card. Jack of clubs. Darryl Freeman.

With a snarl, John crumpled the card and flung it across the room, nearly causing his house of cards to collapse.

That would be justice, he thought. The bastard is ruining my life, he might as well destroy my house of cards, too.

John had long suspected Rita of some dalliance, an illicit affair with an unknown friend or co-worker. Too many business dinners, too many nights out with the girls.

At first, he refused to believe it. Their marriage had been founded on mutual trust, mutual understanding, and John trusted Rita like no other. The nagging voice in his head was joined by another, and another, until the chorus of suspicion nearly drove him mad.

He confronted Rita one night, a tear-filled accusation, begging her to forgive him for suspecting her. She laughed, and he believed her reassuring voice when she said she loved him and would always be faithful. But the suspicions remained, and the paranoid cacophony returned, drowning out her claims of fidelity.

Bitch.

He wasn't supposed to be in the city last week; his job had him commuting to the suburbs every morning. He completed the project sooner than expected and caught the early train, wanting to surprise Rita with a night on the town by way of apology for his loss of faith in her.

John selected the next card to place atop his house of cards. A suicide king, sword drawn and thrust through his own head. John drew a deep breath and set the card down on the table, next to the pistol. No, that's not the way.

Her secretary told him Rita was having lunch with a client at the Baltimore Hotel, an up-scale restaurant suitable for entertaining the rich and powerful. He went there, intending to surprise her when she left to return to work. It was John who was surprised.

Rita and Darryl, arm in arm, came down the staircase leading to the elevators. A deep kiss on the lips, far beyond mere friendship, and they parted. John was crushed.

He wandered through the city, alone amongst millions, unseeing, uncaring. He found himself walking down a darkened street, well past the time he was expected home.

He was greeted with relief as he came through the door. The children rushed to him and Rita met him in the hallway. Missed the train, caught the wrong one. Meaningless phrases mumbled to disguise his anger.

Rita acted normally, and John wanted to attack her with accusations. Her complete lack of guilt stopped him, and he suddenly realized it was over. His neat, orderly life, carefully pieced together, was blown down by the cruel wind of momentary passion, the fickle breeze of love spurned.

His fingers toyed with the last card, and when he turned it over, he froze. Rita.

The lock turned, and the apartment door opened. Rita stood there, hair slightly askew, her eyes glazed by too much alcohol or too much sex.

"John, we need to talk."

As she closed the door, the gust of air caused the house of cards to sway and collapse in a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes. John tossed the last card on the table and grabbed the pistol.

The time for talking was over.

In the dim light of the table lamp, the last card lay face-up amid the ruins of John's house of cards.

The queen of hearts.