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.