Page 27 of Rough

“More therapy for me?”

I poured the letters into the bag and folded the board. “Something like that.”

“Well, it’s working. Being around you makes me feel young again. You know, I’ve been playing this game every Friday for damned near fifty years with my wife. It’ll be fifty in a few weeks, anyway. We started when we got married. This game builds relationships, you can remember that, too. And you know what? After fifty years of playing it, I ain’t sick of it – or her – yet.”

“Wow. Fifty?”

“The big five-oh is coming.”

“Have any kids other than the circus clown?”

“Nope. He’s it. We started late. Complications.”

“Well, I’m glad you got everything sorted out. He’s…well…he’s uhhm…” I stammered, wanting to say something nice about him, but failed to come up with anything. “He’s interesting.”

He shook his head slowly as he gazed down at the table. “He’s something, that’s for sure. Love him, nonetheless.”

I put the lid on the game’s taped-up box, pulled my chair away from the table, and sat down. “I’ve got questions.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Have you always been a jerk?”

He spit out a laugh. “You always so blunt?”

“I don’t believe in sugar coating things.”

“Probably one of the reasons I don’t make an honest effort to hate you. Never cared much for people who didn’t have the guts to say what was on their mind.”

“I’ve got more guts than I’ve got sense, sometimes,” I admitted.

“Proved that out on the porch,” he said. “But it seems that’s a subject we’re not allowed to discuss.”

I grinned. “So, you’re a perceptive jerk?”

“I can be.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Don’t know that I want to.”

“Why not?”

He slumped in his chair, and his gaze lowered to his lap. He rubbed the underside of his nose with the edge of his finger for quite some time, and then looked up. He fixed his eyes on the Scrabble box. He looked defeated. “I’ve always been a prick, but in recent years a little more so.”

I realized he wasn’t done talking, but felt the need to acknowledge his statement. “Okay.”

“Figure if I’m an asshole, people won’t care so much when I’m gone.”

I was afraid to ask why, but after a few seconds, simply had to. He was far too young to be worried about dying.

“You’re not old enough to be worrying about--”

He shifted his eyes to me. “We got any kind of confidentiality clause? You being a nurse, and me being a patient?”

I decided I didn’t want to hear any more. There was a reason he’d made that statement, and I didn’t want to know. I fought to swallow and stood up. “No.”

“Where you going?”