It’s not really a re-match, we agree, as we never finished our previous game of Scrabble last week. So we set up a new game on the bed.

He’s winning, not by much, until I get a bingo, PLEASES, and am suddenly up by 50. I’m too tired to really be competitive, and manage to sip beer lying down while he sorts through his overwhelming collection of consonants.

The game spreads out over a third of the board, we’re spread out of the length of the bed. He is narrowing my lead, but I don’t care.

He places one of his last words, GOES, on the board. I lean over to kiss his neck.

“Oh, my god!” he shouts.

The tiles have pooled around my elbow in a neat wave of destruction.

“Was that the pillow?” I ask.

He feigns looking crushed, then proceeds to pour handfuls of letters over my head.

We fall asleep early, and I am too tired for my normal midnight bath.

It’s fine, I tell myself, as I drift off. I showered in words.


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