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“I do,” she concedes. “But your logic doesn’t apply. I saw the prices on this menu.”
Should I tell her that the prices on this menu are like the cost of gum to me? No. I don’t want to sound braggadocious. That’s the same reason I lied to her about having a friend in Miami instead of telling her that I plan to rent my favorite Airbnb. Now I’ll also say I have friends in St. Petersburg and Marianna—all wanting me to “housesit” for free.
“How about we play Scrabble to settle this?” I offer, hoping she’s buzzed or competitive enough to agree.
“You brought Scrabble tiles with you?” She looks at me like I’ve grown a cock on my forehead—and I hope I haven’t because that’s just an extra cock to get hard in her presence.
“Everyone nowadays carries one of these amazing technological marvels that not only take selfies and make phone calls, but also let you play Scrabble.” I can’t resist a self-satisfied smirk.
Blushing fetchingly, she takes a gulp of her drink. “How do I know you won’t lose on purpose?”
“I don’t need to. The agreement will be: if I win, I get the check, and if—and this is purely hypothetical—I lose, we split it.”
Her eyes gleam. “You’re on.”
Someone is overconfident in her skills.
We take our phones out and set everything up in the Scrabble app before beginning our epic battle of words.
I quickly take the lead, and by the time we’re done with our food and desserts (along with three drinks for her and six for me), my victory seems almost guaranteed.
“This isn’t fair,” she says, her words a little slurred. “I always play with modified rules and more tiles.”
“Seriously? I let you get away with using the word ‘pharmacology,’ even though we agreed not to use pharmacological terms.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’ll say it again, ‘pharmacology’ itself isn’t a pharmacological word.”
“And I say if a noun is a noun, why is ‘pharmacology’ not a pharmacological term?” Shit. I’m not actually sure that made sense.
“I can use that ‘logic’ too. The word ‘curse’ isn’t a curse word,” Brooklyn says stubbornly. “And the word ‘animal’ isn’t itself an animal.”
This is the most frustrating thing about women. They tend to be too good at arguments. “You know what? How about this: pharmacological terms are henceforth allowed. I’ll still beat you.”
“You sure?” she asks, looking suspiciously innocent. “How about chemical names?”
I assess the situation: my tiles are gone, and I’ve got a huge lead. “Do your worst.”
With a triumphant grin, Brooklyn plays a word I have never even heard before: benzoxycamphors.
What the fuck? With that one move, she runs out of tiles and forms three other words, getting an obscene score in the process.
“I win!” she squeals.
Oh, yeah. That too.
I check if the word is a real one, and yep, it’s actually famous for being a Scrabble word that yields an absurd number of points—which is how she must’ve learned about it.
“You cheated.” I bet the slurring was a ruse too, to trick me into lowering my guard, which I did.
“Is someone a sore loser?” She makes a drink gesture at the waitress.
“I demand a rematch.”
“A deal is a deal,” she says. “We split the bill.”
I sigh. “Look, I was so confident that I’d win, I ordered more drinks than I would have otherwise. It wouldn’t be fair for you to pay for half of them.”
She rolls her eyes. “Who sounds insulting now?”
