“Kauss, play the game.”
He plays.
He is terrible for exactly thirty seconds because he is too careful. The balls float around him while he tries not to destroy anything. I score six times, laughing so hard I nearly miss the seventh. Then he adjusts. His movements become precise, controlled, almost graceful. He taps the spheres with minimal force, angling them perfectly into rings. The machine starts flashing in celebration.
I gasp. “You hustled me.”
“I learned.”
“You learned too well.”
“I can do worse if you prefer.”
“Absolutely not. I want the dignity of losing honestly.”
“You are not losing.”
The machine announces I am very much losing.
Kauss looks at the score. “You are losing.”
“Never repeat that to me while I’m holding a drink.”
By the racing simulation, he cannot fit properly in the human-sized seat, which leads to ten minutes of me laughing while he attempts to fold himself into the cockpit like an angry piece of furniture. He finally gives up, stands behind me, and coaches my driving with unbearable seriousness.
“Brake before the turn.”
“I know how to drive.”
“You just hit a wall.”
“It came out of nowhere.”
“It was on the map.”
“Whose side are you on?”
“Yours. That is why I object to the wall.”
I laugh so hard I lose the race.
Later, when the music shifts to something slower with a heavy beat, I catch him watching the dance floor. Couples move beneath blue and purple light, some graceful, some drunk, some simply happy to be touched. Kauss’s face closes the second he realizes I have noticed.
“No,” he says.
“I didn’t ask.”
“You were about to.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes.”
“You think I’m predictable?”
“In this matter, yes.”
I set down my drink and stand. “Dance with me.”
