Roll a Double

The drive to the coast was too much. He could feel the weight of it on his shoulders and another part of it pressed obscenely into his forehead. He would have cried, but that option was not open to him – it lay in a faraway place and the distance of it hurt him. There was no release here, which flew in the face of why they had come. A long weekend away from the stress of the day-to-day. An escape from the dumb humdrum.

The peculiar price paid for such an adventure was beyond any that he was willing to pay, but he would pay it all the same. Parting from the familiarity of his existence was bad enough. Then there was the creeping fear of the unknown. Not that he anticipated monsters under the bed, or dragons coiled around the bar of the local pub, but there were always problems loitering in as yet undiscovered locations. 

He’d come to understand that these problems and issues were what reality was all about. In the right place and at the right time, they could make the day more bearable. Something to do. A way to be of use. But far away from his comfort zone, they wore hoodies and carried knives and he really did not want to walk past their mocking forms, let alone stop and ask them the time of day.

As they had left the illusory protection of what he jokingly called The Shire, he sensed a chill in the air and his mood succumbed to the grey. Home wasn’t only the bricks and mortar of his refuge, it was a ten mile wide bubble of everything that he knew. That bubble was as much a part of him as his unruly and contrary curly hair. He loved his hair, but he didn’t always like it. His hair was independent, which was to say wayward. There were days when the crowd of curls were getting along and they pulled together to become his crowning glory. Other days, his hair was a mess and that mess was contagious. A bad domino intent on taking the rest out with it as it kicked against the grain.

It wasn’t just the bubble of course, it was her as well.

The break had been her idea. She had said that they were in need of it, but she hadn’t said why. She was intimating that there was something wrong but she would not give any detail. She did not need to point though. He got it. If he’d asked and she’d deigned to respond, she would have said something cryptic about us. But whatever she said, he knew where the problem resided, as far as she was concerned. And her concern was all that counted. He’d someone learned that, but could not remember the lesson itself.

The issue resided In him.

And so, it was him.

The problem that had exiled him from his comfort zone was further compounded by feelings. She held much store by feelings. For her, feelings were star signs and she had an astrologer’s knack of providing a feeling’s meaning. Never had the day’s reading resonated with him and after a while he wondered whether his feelings had any meaning at all. 

The chill in the cabin of the too small car was maintained via the awkward silence, and the silence carried with it a dread anticipation. He resented this journey making his car seem too small. The little motor was ideal for the trips he regularly took it on, but this hike was a bit much and he felt for his jalopy. Feelings for a mass produced metallic object. Feelings he could not express for fear of betraying his priorities and a distorted view of a world that was itself distorted beyond measure. Twisted out of shape, careening through space in a gigantic game of pinball that was never going to score highly.

He drove. 

She could have driven, but then he would have owed her and she would have made sure he knew that. He couldn’t bear to be overdrawn before the weekend had already begun, not when he didn’t have the currency to get back into the black.

The traffic reminded him of insane antibodies treacherously attacking their host. The roads were filled with poison, and driving through them hurt him all the more. His skin became too tight, threatening to burst as vehicle after vehicle jostled for position and supremacy around him. He resisted the urge to provide a commentary. Had he been on his own, or with anyone else, he would have made wry comments about the idiocy of the drivers swerving around his defiant little car. His words of mirth were a release. A form of expression that was healthy right up until he was told that it was not. Repurposed as a rage he did not feel, but proof all the same that he was turning into a grumpy old man. Just like his dad.

The weather was glorious all the way up until they first spotted the sea. His heart lifted as he saw the vast and quietly powerful waters. The first sighting of the sea was a wonder, and also a ritual. But he silenced his excitable inner child. The timing was wrong. He did not want to be inappropriate. He realised the mistake he had made in silencing the better part of himself, and that he had angered the gods, when the clouds gathered and mirrored his own grey. The promising blue skies tutted at the intrusion and went elsewhere in search of true acknowledgment and appreciation.

The rain punished him on behalf of the annoyed gods as he unloaded the boot of the car. He half-expected it to cease once he had no further cause to venture outside, but instead it redoubled its efforts and brought a premature night with it.

“Typical,” she hissed.

He shrugged a half-affirmation, unsure as to what was typical but fully aware of her displeasure.

Having carried their bags into the bedroom, he unpacked their provisions. He’d thought ahead and bought food so that they did not have to scout around for a shop that might already be closing for the day, once it understood the immediacy of their need for it.

“Tea?” he asked as he finished up with the unpacking.

“May as well,” she said staring at her reflection in the ominously dark window. She may have been considering the storm beyond, but he doubted it and she said nothing about the drama of wind and rain in any case, there were more important things on her mind.

There was something comforting about the ritual of tea making and being in possession of a mug that would, he could guarantee, bestow some pleasantness upon him. Tea was one of life’s simple pleasures and the only thing that could ruin it was a malady of milk. This milk was fresh though and content to mix with the tea like a lifelong friend. He watched it intently, prior to stirring the contents of the mug together.

“It’s nice,” he said as he cradled his mug and peered at the inviting caffeine imbued waters.

“It was all I could find,” she said.

He nodded, reluctantly placed the mug on the kitchen side and paced around the small cottage. It would do, was his assessment. Too small to be a real living space, it could hold him and his mug of tea adequately whilst affording him a place to sleep, and another to shower. There was more to the cottage than that, he knew, but no one ever gave anything the full treatment. Cursory assessments were where it was at, or failing that a stinking spray of judgement as a precursor to writing a thing off, especially if the thing happened to be a person. Time was money and everyone was poor. 

His eyes fell upon a set of shelves. The shelves contained books. He wanted to ogle the book spines, but it was more trouble than it was worth in this company, so he sadly averted his eyes and having spotted the cupboard below the shelves, he squatted and opened it. Inside was treasure and having espied the central gem atop the golden hoard, he grabbed at it and brought it forth. Totally forgetting himself, he unselfconsciously beamed as he held the box aloft.

“Not played this in an age!” he grinned, “fancy a game?”

The smile, the words and the grin were out before he had time to think them through, and in the instant after, he had no time to panic let alone compose a retraction.

“Yes!” she said with an enthusiasm he’d managed to lose any recollection of in the mists of his grey, “I’d like that.”

Now came a moment of awkwardness. Two people made strangers by smiles they had not worn in each other’s presence for an age. There was a truth here that was bigger than either of them. They tried to look upon it, but it was too much and the floor became an object of diversionary interest instead.

There was a feeling here, and as he tried to explore it he realised it was a cocktail of feelings, the sharp taste that rose up from the bottom of the glass and made his eyes water was loss.

He stepped around her and put the box on the small table. A table just the right size for the game, but not large enough to accommodate anything more, not even two mugs of tea. He placed the board on the table and then set everything out. The box containing most of the moving parts of the game. 

“What would you like to be?” he asked, giving her first choice.

“The dog,” she said, picking the one piece that he had designs on. He tried not to show his disappointment, stemming the flow of negative emotion with a dam of hope. They were going to play this game. Together. This could only be a good thing. This was something they could both do. He tried to cease his being at one with the grey of the storm as it assailed the tiny cottage, the wind crying with rage as it thrashed about in the sea. He thought he might have succeeded, but it was very difficult to tell. He was so out of practice.

He handed her the dog and then considered his inferior and limited choice. He liked hats, but top hats were alien to him. If he were ever to place one on his head he would show himself up as the impostor that he tried so unsuccessfully to conceal.

They rolled the dice to establish who would go first. He rolled a double six. He didn’t see her scowl, but he felt it and that was worse somehow. A blemish that threatened the blossoming beauty of the shared moment.

The first three times around the board were fun. He didn’t realise they were fun until he was in the back straight for the third time. It was her turn to roll and they exchanged another smile and he saw the years roll away from her. The game transporting them to an age of timeless innocence. Nothing mattered in this moment other than the moment itself. Not the storm outside, the rising tide of bills or the uncertainty of either of their jobs. All the pinpricks of a million worries were washed away and there was a purity here that he wished he’d never lost sight of. 

Then she rolled. The dice came to a stop. One dot on the first dice and two on the second. She tapped her dog three stages along and landed on a square that demanded that she picked a card. Most of those cards meant a windfall. A few a fine. But there was also the chance of imprisonment, and no mind as to whether the player was innocent or guilty.

She examined the card and the fun of the last three circuits around the board fell from her face, shattering into a thousand jagged pieces. Creating a mess he would be expected to clean up. She turned the card and showed him. She held it there and all he could see was red. A red card that was giving him his marching orders. The unfairness of life came from nowhere and took everything from him just as he thought he had nothing left to lose.

He shrugged. There was nothing else to do. Sometimes all that was left was to carry on and see if you couldn’t grind out a result. One foot in front of the other and a blind hope that you were going in the right direction and there would come a time to stop, take stock and work out whether there was the scope for a what next.

She placed the dog outside the jail and he could not help himself, “you’re not just visiting. You’re there for a long stretch.” He should have regretted his words, but there was some semblance of righteous punishment here and he realised that this was no longer an innocent game, but a battleground.

He plucked up the dice and cupped his hands around them. He blew into the enclosed space for good luck and he rolled a double six. He counted out the squares, but he knew before he started where he would end up. 

On the outside looking in.

She glowered at him and snatched up the dice. She did not roll a double and had to stay put. He rolled another double six, landed on a square that meant he had to select a card. He paused as he reached out for the card on top of the deck. His finger pressing down. He didn’t look at her. Didn’t dare. Instead, he looked at the square her dog was trapped in. This wasn’t ever in the script. He’d been there and he’d left her, now he was taking his chances while she stayed put and languished. Something stirred within him. He had a chance and that chance was a gateway to change. Things didn’t have to be like this. Perhaps they never should have been like this. He lifted the card and smiled as the nature of this chance was revealed to him.

He was always going to smile, come what may. That was written in those stars of hers. He wanted to wear that smile and he had a need to inflict it upon her.

“You bastard,” she hissed at the sight of him smiling.

“It’s only a game,” he said with a false jollity, the smile continuing to play along his lips.

“Show me,” she demanded.

He did not. Instead he carefully placed the card at the bottom of the deck, then he lifted his top hat and joined her in prison.

Now she smiled in triumph. Celebrating his downfall. He returned the smile. Why wouldn’t he? He saw more clearly now. The game was just a game, and his life was a game too. Only he’d not been playing by the rules and somehow he’d lost his way. He wasn’t sure how that worked, but that didn’t matter. 

There was another way.

A way out.

She rolled the dice and the dice did her no favours.

When he rolled the dice, he did so with no care for what happened next in this game, his eye was on a bigger game. The dice took their sweet time, but the outcome was a dead cert. A synchronicity held sway and the two dice came to a stop in the very same instant. Two sixes. A double that opened the doors wide open and allowed him to get as far away as he possibly could.