That night I spent 1580 points on a girl. When she smiled, her eyes curved into crescents, and she was as lively as a young deer.

The dice rattled thunderously. She lost and was supposed to say "I love you" ten times, but instead she leaned close to my ear and softly whispered it twenty times. At the end she tilted her head and smiled, pouring me a full glass of wine.
Later she stuffed a cigarette into my mouth, its tip still marked with her lipstick, and the place where she'd bitten it still held her warmth.
"Brother, is my mouth sweet?"
I suddenly froze. It had been so long, so very long since anyone had told me "I love you."
Even though I knew this was a transaction, that moment of warmth felt like someone had draped a coat over me on a cold night.
When I was drunk and dizzy, she took my wine glass away, linked her arm through mine to stop me from drinking more, touched my head, and let me rest it on her lap.
In that moment I couldn't tell what was real and what was fake, and I was too lazy to wonder if it was all just an act.
The feeling of being cared for, being protected—it was too precious.
As for whether it's love or not, it suddenly didn't seem so important anymore.