Monopoly

“If I hit forty,” she said as she shoved the thimble across the board, “and I’m still single, and you’re still single, too, let’s get married.” She laughed after she said it. He laughed after she said it. And they promised to never forget.

And then she left town. And he left town. And other towns came and went, and other friends, and every now and then he tried to find her. He looked, and he wondered, as he looked, if she looked, too.

He’s over forty, now. And still single. And he knows that she’s over forty, but doesn’t know if she’s still single. Sometimes, in his tiny studio, he sits cross-legged on the bare floor, like they used to, playing Monopoly by himself. She goes first, and he moves her thimble to Oriental, and Baltic, and Reading Railroad. He buys her properties, builds her houses and hotels, and pays her two hundred dollars whenever she passes Go. And when it’s his turn, and his shoe lands on something she owns, he pays her with a smile.

She always wins.