Tiffany
When we are bored, the only thing we can actually do is talk or play games. We chose the latter, but Larry says to throw in something better.
“Whoever fails has to do what the other tells them to do,” he says.
The game might be to my favor if I play it nice. It is the choice of games that becomes the problem afterward because there are no cards or wooden clubs. There are just the both of us with nothing better to do. I suppose we are limited not because we are stuck here with no help coming until the snow stops but because the tension to do something else is getting increasingly intense, and even though the craving is benign, it comes through to the surface sometimes.
“I know one game we could try,” he says and raises a paper fist. “It’s called the numbers game.”
I know of that too, but there is excitement charging in his eyes. I wonder if he is happy because of the game or because of something else; something he hasn’t had the time to say to me yet. But I do not ask him or implore him to speak to me.
The rule of the game is pretty simple: whoever begins the game has to stick their fingers out for numbers while the other follows too and tries to guess the numbers at the same time. It is a game of luck. Larry tells me he likes this game because it is fair, but I don’t think both our definitions of fairness are the same.
He says, “I’ll let you start, Tiffany.”