Blowing on the dice, I tell her, "When this game is over, I'll be kissing you for a long, long while."
She slumps against the sofa and clamps her teeth down on both her lips, seeming like she's trying not to smile. Then she makes a noise that sounds like "mmm."
After a few more moves, and intentionally bad decisions by me, Erica is in a strong position to win the game. She rolls the dice and moves her playing piece, a wee cat, around the board. When she sees where she has landed, her happy expression disintegrates, and she almost looks ill as she curls her fingers into her palms.
Erica has landed in jail.
But it's only a game. She looks like she thinks real police will burst through the front door to haul her away to prison. Her features pinch as if she's in pain, and she sets about clumsily shuffling and rearranging her colorful money. Tears glisten in her eyes, about to overflow and trickle down her cheeks. She hiccups and wipes them away with the heel of her hand.
"What's wrong?" I ask.
She keeps fiddling with her banknotes.
"I said, what's wrong?"
Erica sniffles but keeps reordering her money, over and over.
"What's the bother?" I nearly shout, trying to break whatever spell the Monopoly money has cast over her.
She jumps, a stronger hiccup jolting her, and finally looks at me.
I tug at the neck of my T-shirt and contort my lips because suddenly I'm uncomfortable too, though I'm not on the verge of crying. I soften my tone and say, "I'm sorry. Didn't mean to shout, but I asked you twice before and you didn't answer."
"Didn't hear you." A solitary tear trickles down her skin.
The need to comfort her becomes too strong to ignore, but I shouldn't do what I want to do—rush over there to hug her. "Must've been lost in thought, if you didn't hear me ask the first time." I reach across the table to touch her knee. "What's fashed you?"
She swallows hard enough I can see the movement in her throat.
I study her, wondering again what could have upset her so much. We were enjoying a silly game, not discussing painful memories. Unless Monopoly has negative connotations for her. But no, she had suggested we play the game. We'd been having a good time until she landed in jail. Imaginary jail. Why would that fash her? Erica can't have been in prison before.
My hand still rests on her knee, so I caress it with gentle strokes. "Erica?"
She clears her throat. "What does 'fashed' mean?"
I curl my fingers around her knee. "Means bothered, which you seem to be at the moment."
"Oh no, not me." Though she smiles, it seems to be forced rather than natural.
My brows tighten, and I resist the urge to frown. She's lying, and we both know it.
Erica pats my hand. "Thanks for the concern, but didn't we agree to no personal questions?"
"Yes."Mhac na galla. I pull my hand away, my jaw tensing. "I apologize for violating our agreement."
Is comforting a woman a criminal offense in America?
"No biggie," Erica says.
My confusion probably shows on my face.
She smiles, and this time, it doesn't seem forced. "That means it's okay."
A breath gusts out of me, and the tension in my body softens. "Good."
Erica bites her fingernail and points at my playing piece, a Scottish terrier. "Your turn."
Her gaze falls to her piece where it lies trapped in jail, and she clamps her lips between her teeth again.