Je Suis Une Gamine

“And now,” he said, “let’s play a game.”

Emily had agreed to see him only on account of historical import, on her part: his presence when she was twelve, thirteen and fourteen could not be undone. His youthful dare-devilry excited her barely-adolescent sex… and what with that delicious wavy hair, good god. Mr. Darcy! and all that.

She could not force her eyes away from the horrendous tattoo. Emily realized that that dare-devil existed better as potential energy. Seeing what he’d done with that reckless head… besides that tattoo who knows?… only impressed upon her the importance of thinking things through thoroughly.

“Is this a verbal game? The type we think aloud and surrender the modus operandi of our minds?” Emily asked.

“I can’t imagine you showing me anything more than you’d like to. You’ve always held your cards like this.” He held an invisible hand close to his chest.

Emily prided herself on her poker game.

“So anyway,” he continued, “The Game.” He held his thumbs and indexes in frame. ” The next street over has a thrift shop.”

Yes, Emily knew it.

“In the southeastern corner there’s a room full of little figurines. You pick one that represents who you thought I would grow up to be while attending school and, another, representing what I am now.”

“Ugh,” Emily thought, “the blue in that tattoo.” Aloud: “You’ll do the same for me?”

“That’s the game.”

The figurines had no thematic boundaries. The cowboys were sitting with angels and cocker spaniels. There were several mirrors extending their hodgepodge diorama into infinity. She found an iron wolf. Then she found a dashboard hula doll.

Emily bought them and waited out his indecisiveness at the northeastern end with the hats and cocktail shakers.

Once when they skipped classes, they stole his grandfather’s Siata and took it to a sheepherder’s where they sat on the hood smoking, watching a Kelpie herd the sheep. She had leaned back so as to unobtrusively observe his profile. His nose was active, his lashes and eyes dark and fascinated. The small hairs on his forearms were at attention. A born predator, truly.

He found Emily in a cloche. He set two figurines down. She handed him her selection. She bend down to face his figurines at eye level. The first was a plastic bride meant for the crown of a wedding cake. The second was a brass girl, a twiggy thing holding out a bunch of sticks. Emily lifted her and found inscribed on the back, “Hans Christian Anderson’s Little Match Girl.”

“That’s the closest I could get to a chain smoker,” he explained. He lifted up the Hula Girl. “Fuck you.”

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