Solitaire

There should be a word to describe the sound of someone shuffling cards. Not anybody shuffling cards-an expert. There should be words to describe the flicker of the cards, the smell of the dust that flies off them, the smooth planes.
She smiles, a little wistfully, carefully laying out the cards into the proper piles.
"You play cards?" he asks carefully. She looks up at him, startled, then smiles warmly.
The room they're in is quiet, warm, a far cry from what lurks outside-the nightmare fiends and cold air.
She tells him how her father taught her when she was little. How he showed her the proper shuffle, how to set the cards out, how to fan them. He taught her a poker face, and a blackjack smile, and how to play solitaire.
"A game of luck and skill. More luck than skill, really, up until the last few cards,"
She carefully flips a card over and stares at it for a bit. She smiles again.
"I win," she tilts her head, giggles slightly, and leaves the room.
Curious, he looks over at the cards to see that the cards as they are make it impossible to win. A queen and a ten are stacked over one another in the upper hand, and there's no place to put either of them. In the other corner, the four suits are carefully arranged, each going only up to seven.
She comes back a second later and packs up the cards carefully, sorting them into the four suits with the aces on top.
"I heard it was bad luck to sort the cards," he said, confused.
"Maybe bad luck is better than no luck at all,"

Later on, near the end, he would remember her words and smile.
He taught her a poker face, a blackjack smile and how to play solitaire, and she smiled, whispered bad luck, and promptly forgot.