Why Don’t We Go Back And Play A Game?

‘Why don’t we go back and play a game? she asked me as we danced in the club. There was a local DJ on, pumping out local music which wafted out of my mind the second we left to the local store for whiskey and wine.

We got back with bottles half empty. She led down on my bed, I sat on my chair. She lifted her legs, I switched on the TV. She stared into my eyes, I stared at my shelf. She picked at her buttons, I picked at my own, the game console powering on.

She passed me a bottle, I passed her a pad, and we played some Beautiful Katamari well into the night. You roll up objects with your ball, starting with cups and plates, ending with planets in space. You just roll till there’s nothing left to take, nothing left at all.

Once we’d had enough, she went off with a wave, and I sat in my own darkness, controller in hand.

I bumped into her a few years later, and she recalled that night with a certain enthusiasm I didn’t have. She told me how she looked for that game recently, and picked it up for her boyfriend’s gaming machine. We grabbed a bite to eat as we looked back on the past, and as I ate cake, she scrunched a paper napkin into a ball, and rolled it over the crumbs she’d left from her chicken bake, just like that game. And I just had to ask her this:

‘Why don’t we go back and play a game?’

She paid for her drink and she went off with a wave once more. I looked at the katamari napkin left behind, and used it to roll up the mess I had made.



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