A month or so into their liaison, Kenzie
initiated in earnest her inquiry into his past relationships. She had, in fact,
tried it some weeks before ("Names, dates, drama, in that order,
thanks."), but he didn't bite; he sighed outwardly, and continued on with
whatever task she'd interrupted. Nor was she unaware of how tedious the process
could be: previous partners had been similarly reserved. From past experience,
she'd gleaned at least two methods of getting the info she desired.
"What if I tell you about mine first?
And we go blow for blow?"
"I just don't think it's that
interesting, Kenz."
"I think it's plenty interesting, and
useful, too! It's good to see where we went wrong in our previous forays."
"And maybe we've already gotten
everything we needed to out of those old relationships, and we should just let
it be."
"I'm beginning to think you're hiding
something." She said in a sing-song voice.
"There's nothing to hide, Kenz,
promise. No checkered past, no secret, no double life. I'm just interested in
talking about other things."
Wordlessly, she began to wash the dishes.
She was visibly disappointed. One broken heart ago, he wouldn't have thought
anything of it, but he'd said it himself: he was supposed to have learned
something from all that. So, he asked: "Hey, that game you showed me, the
night we met, what's it called again?"
"Siren." The faucet stopped, and
her gaze turned to the living room closet, the entrance of which was blocked by
a faux-leather sofa he'd brought from his place when he moved in.
"Yeah, Siren, that's right. Tell you
what, I have a preposition for you. We never got to play it right? I think we
were too drunk that night? But I know it’s your favorite, so, let's play a
round. You win, I give you name. I win, you drop it for a week, and maybe
instead of talking about that stuff, we lay in bed while you tell me more about
how shitty your thesis advisor is." He smiled then, and she replied with
own.
"That's it?" She sneered. Without
hesitation, she approached the couch and lifted her hand up in his direction,
gesturing for his aid with the implicit certainty of an aristocrat. "What
happened to high stakes? I've seen you bet your paycheck on one inning of
baseball."
"That's different: the Astros were
untouchable that week." He groaned as they moved the couch. "You're a
psycho when it comes to games. I'm not about to bet my life." She opened
the door and withdrew from the closet a dusty, plastic box. They sat
face-to-face as she took out the cards and fanned them along the table in one
swift motion. "How about this: three rounds. If you win any of them, I
drop the subject forever."
He laughed, "And if you win all three you
get my soul?"
"Nope, just a name, like you
said."
He clapped his hands together and leaned
forward, keen on hearing the rules of the game, "Well, if those are your
terms... just remember that you did this to yourself!"
"I will. And babe, I don't need to win
your soul in a game. It's already mine."
She smiled then, and he replied with his
own. The cards went out and the game began.