I nod, returning my attention to the margarita I was pouring. “So, what game did you choose?” I ask.
“It’s a couple’s game. Each card has a question, and we have to answer it together, then maybe discuss. I bet we’ll learn a lot more about one another.”
“That should be fun.”
“That’s what I thought. Shall we?”
She sets up the box on the table before sitting next to me, with her legs under her. With her margarita in her left hand, she randomly picks a card from the box. Seeing her use both her arms feels grand, and pride swells in my chest at seeing her recover so well. She reads the bold letters silently first, and then out loud. “What nonsexual thing does your partner do that really turns you on?”
We both think about it for a few seconds, and she says first, “When you put on your glasses. Or when you adjust them. It makes me so horny, it’s not even funny.”
“Really? You must be horny quite a lot.”
“You have no idea.”
“I used to get really turned on when you called me ‘baby,’ but I’ve gotten used to it now. So maybe when you’re thinking intently, with your brows furrowed. Sometimes you even have the tip of your tongue poking from between your lips. It makes me want to distract you.”
“You must have gotten so many hard-ons when we shared a desk at Kelex.”
“Woman, I’ve stopped counting the unsolicited erections you’ve triggered at work for me.”
Delighted by my admission, she takes a sip of her margarita with a broad smile. Gesturing toward the game, she says, “Your turn to pick.”
“Is it our similarities or differences that attract us to each other?” I read after picking a card.
“Hmm, that’s a good one. For me, our similarities helped us find some common ground and bond. But I definitely love how different you are from everything I’ve ever known. That’s part of the reason I’m attracted to you. I like that you’re cerebral, full of self-control, and aloof to most of the world. It makes me feel so special that you’re spontaneous, open, and warm with me.”
“And I love that you’re free-spirited, impulsive, and social. It makes me want to be the same. It pushes me to be more like you.”
“You know you don’t have to change for my sake, right? I love you just the way you are,” she insists.
“I know. You’re more of a role model, if that makes sense? I adore everything about you, so becoming even the slightest bit like you would be an achievement.”
After a few seconds of staring at me with her lips parted, she decides, “I need you to tone it down, Coleman. At this rate, I’ll jumpyou and beg you to put a baby in me by card number four. And not even for the sex, just so I can birth your offspring.”
Without giving me time to answer, she picks another card. She snorts after reading it to herself, then says, “I think we can skip this one.”
Curious, I take it from her and read:How is this relationship unique?
“Yeah, I think we both know the answer to that,” I agree after a soft laugh.
We alternate picking cards, and for a lot of them, we already know the answers. Our first love is each other. Our favorite sex positions are doggy style for her, cowgirl for me, and sexually, we want to explore anal and tying her up. On a less carnal note, we also know a lot about one another’s upbringing, about each other’s parents, about our flaws, qualities, and insecurities.
But the game allows us to ask things we’d never thought about, and I’ll forever enjoy learning more about her. I could spend the entire week picking cards, answering, and discussing without growing bored with it. We learn about each other’s first kisses, our first times, about our understanding of love, our expectations for the future… We even settle on having two children—three if it’s easier than we anticipated.
After a few questions, we stumble upon a wild card. We have a minute to write a note to our teenage selves on a piece of paper. “Ready?” she asks once she’s done.
“You first.”
“Okay, this might sound silly, but I really struggled with this when I was younger,” she warns, seemingly worried I’ll make fun of her. “So I wrote, ‘Don’t brush your hair outside of shampoo day. That’s how you get cute curls.’”
“Oh… I think I didn’t do this properly.”
“I’m sure you did. What does it say?” she asks, peeking at my terrible handwriting.
“‘The woman with the curly hair, the freckles, and the Hulk T-shirt you’ll meet in an elevator is the one. Don’t be an ass to her.’”
She stares at me with what’s either consternation or stupefaction. Hard to tell. I’m looking down at the note again when she says, “Okay, I’m the one who did it wrong. I should have given my younger self your name and address and told myself to go get you.”
