by Lauren Silverman
The candlelight is barely bright enough to make out the colors on the white cards between us. I draw from the top of the pile and turn my card over, revealing its face.
I squint and hold it closer to the candle, which releases a fresh linen scent as the wick burns and the tiny flame flutters about.
The square on the card is red. I shake my head, pinch the top of my game piece, and walk it two spaces forward. My little plastic gingerbread man has quite the journey before him. He still has to cross a chocolate river, a forest made of licorice, and a caramel ocean before he can make it to the castle.
My opponent drums his fingers on the table. I try to ignore the rhythmic tapping, solid bone against solid wood, index to pinky finger in quick movements.
One, two, three, four.
I look. His fingers are flesh, not bone.
He clears his throat.
“You’re blocking the cards,” he says and clicks his teeth. The sound of his voice bounces around in his hollow skull and escapes from where his throat should be.
He’s right. I sit back in my chair and distance myself from him, from the board, from the bowl sitting to my left. A spherical mound of ice cream peeks over the lip. Even in the dim light, I know what it is: vanilla-orange twist. I can smell it from where I sit and the sugary scent makes my stomach roll.
My opponent draws a card from the top of the pile. It’s getting low. The cards we’ve already used lay strewn in an effortless heap with some of the faces up, so I can see the cards that have helped me fall behind.
He places one before me –blue – and does not wait for my reaction to move his similarly-hued plastic horse even further ahead of me and stop on the next blue space. He’s in the caramel sea now. There is an illustration of a honey-colored body of water next to his piece, with a candy ship sailing through.
He’s nearing the end. If he gets two more purple cards, he’ll be at the candy castle. What will happen then?
My throat tightens and I gaze desperately at the pile, hoping I’d acquire the strategy to get ahead, even in a game of chance.
He taps his fingers again, bone against wood. The sound sends a chill deep into my heart. When I look at him, he is flesh.
One, two, three, four.
“Go ahead,” he says.
I lean forward and smell oranges. The scoop of ice cream next to me is beginning to melt. Ice cream has always been my favorite dessert and I’m so hungry I think of devouring it in one bite, but the thought of having anything in my stomach makes me feel sick.
My next card is yellow. I move my gingerbread man to the next yellow square, which has a black circle on it. My piece will be stuck there unless I can draw another yellow card.
My opponent draws more cards. His piece steadily progresses across the colored tiles, farther from mine and closer to the candy castle. Every card I pick is red, orange, blue, green, and purple. Not yellow.
The pile of cards has gotten lower. My hand shakes as it creeps toward the bowl of ice cream and drags it closer. The scoop is still there, but is surrounded by a pool of melted orange and white liquid. I think of sipping the liquid from the spoon. My stomach starts to hurt, and the thought goes away.
I take a deep, laborious breath. It has become harder to inhale. The more nervous I become, the slower my breathing gets. I concentrate and try to get as much air in my lungs as possible, but it’s taking a long time. Between my lungs, my heart is too frightened to keep its usual pace. It needs to save energy. It’s slowing down.
He pulls another card. He doesn’t show me the face but slides his piece over to the next purple tile.
I swallow hard. If he gets a purple card again, he wins, but I don’t want to lose. Not yet.
The tapping starts again. He is waiting for me. My reflexes have slowed and I fight my fatigued body just to lean forward.
One, two, three, four.
My arm hangs in the air, limp. I can’t bear to think what my next card will be. I am too exhausted to stretch. I consider forfeiting.
“Here,” says my opponent, and places a card face down in my slick, trembling palm. It sticks to my hand, and I slap it on the table to take a look at the face.
Blue.
A cry creeps up from the back of my throat. My gingerbread man is still near the chocolate river, stuck. I let out a sob and glare at the blue card with the last of my remaining strength, hoping my vision will either destroy it or turn it yellow.
“It’s not fair,” I say, and I must fight myself to say it, even as my jaw and tongue are near-paralyzed with fear and exhaustion. My words are quiet; I cannot speak any louder.
“Of course it’s not fair,” says my opponent, reaching toward the game board and sliding the final card closer to him. “It’s a game of chance, is it not?”
My eyelids feel heavy. I’m too tired to keep them open, but I force the muscles in my face to keep working. I strain to look at my opponent, who has yet to flip his card over. He’s watching me.
I open my mouth to speak. It takes a few seconds to push the sound out.
“Then why am I even playing?”
My opponent leans forward in his chair, card in hand, and rests his elbows on the table. My gingerbread man stands lonely in his shadow.
“Because,” he says, closely enough that I can watch his forehead glisten with dots of sweat and his glassy, tired eyes reflect the flickering candle nearby, “Anything can happen. By chance.”
He turns the card over. The black lettering across its face reads BACK TO START.
I sag my shoulders and sigh as he picks up his piece and slides it across the board, behind me, behind the chocolate river, and back to the very first square.
My body kick-starts with relief. My heart rate soars from its dull thud to a purposeful rhythm, and I am able to keep my eyes open without effort. My senses return. I feel less numb. My stomach, however, stays the same; it hurts, and I’m nauseous.
My opponent gathers the used cards and straightens them out. He splits the deck and half and gives it a good shuffle. I lose sight of the BACK TO START card, which is now somewhere in the middle, or the bottom, or the top.
He places the neat stack on the board and smiles. I smile back.
I grab the bowl of ice cream, take a deep, fulfilling breath, and spoon some of the melted dessert into my mouth. My stomach trembles with either confusion or delight, or both. The mix of vanilla and orange flavors mingle on my tongue and coat my throat. I take another spoonful, and another.
“Shall we keep playing?” asks my opponent. I nod.
My next card is yellow. I move my piece ahead, thinking about my next draw and the ice cream in my stomach, about the shaky candle wick sitting in its pool of wax, about my opponent sitting across from me, made of bone to the ear but flesh to the eyes, deep in thought waiting for me to finish my move. My fingers clasp the little, flat gingerbread man. I let him go and ease back.
This is a game of chance, and I am in the lead. For now.
