Page 36 of The Plus Ones

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“Is that allowed?”

“You didn’t have to talk about your family if you didn’t want to.”

“That’s annoying.”

“Why? We had a nice little conversation about Corvettes and garage porn. I feel so much closer to you now.”

“I’m so happy for the local mosquitos. They’re gonna feast tonight.”

“What would you like to talk about?”

“We don’t have to talk about anything.”

“You’re a really fun date.”

“It’s not a date.”

“What kind of office does your mother manage?”

“An ophthalmology practice.”

“Interesting. Your parents sound like they might be a little different.”

“From you? Very.”

“From each other.”

“A little. I mean, I guess they used to be, but they’ve, you know. Merged. Over the years.”

“Interesting.”

“They have fun together.”

“How?”

“You want to know how my parents have fun together?”

“We don’t have to talk at all if you really don’t want to.”

We sit in silence for one terrible everlasting minute. He grins at me, and I fidget, and he’s amused by my fidgeting, and fuck this guy. “They just have fun with each other. Like all the time, doing anything. They tease each other and make each other laugh. They make up these stupid card games that only they know the rules to.”

“Do they let other people play with them?”

“No. It’s their own thing. I mean, they have their own game that’s called Poker? I Don’t Even Know Her! but they made up another game for Paul and me and they refused to give it a name, we’d just call it The Card Game.”

“Did they make up the rules as you went along?”

“No. The rules were very clear and pretty simple.” I describe the rules in great detail, as well as my favorite memory of the time we all played it on Christmas Eve at my grandparents’ house. I get teary-eyed and shift around in my chair and then polish off my Caribbean Rum Punch. “I can’t believe I just told you all that. How much rum did they put in this thing?” I say.

“It’s not the rum,” he says. “That card game’s called Spades, by the way. You were playing Spades.”

“No. It’s a card game that my parents made up for us.”

“Okay. You get along with your brother?”

“Yes. Why? You think I have a problem with all men? I don’t. It’s just you.”

“So I’m special?”