Six points. That's all that separated my sweety, Grace from victory. Six lousy points. That Grace wound up on the wrong side of the six points is surprising in and of itself, but more to the point is that Grace being on the wrong side of six points doesn't bode well for me and the evening's plans. Well, my plans. Instead of the victory dance (read: sex) I was tuning up for, there will be angry recitations of the flow of the game gone wrong. Grace will review each move, each strategy. She will obsess over the loss, she will gnaw and pick like a dog with a bone. She will not be cajoled, she will not be wooed. There will be heat, but not in the way I desired.
Six. Lousy. Points.
Grace hardly ever loses, for this I am grateful. She is the most competitive person I know, the most competitive person I've ever met. Grace accepts challenges to play a game she'd never played. Upon accepting a challenge to play a game formerly foreign to her games repertoire, she studies and practices until she acquires (in her view) the skills of a seasoned veteran. It seems to work for as I say, she hardly every loses. Grace expects to win every game played and her sore losing is nothing compared to her boisterous winning. And while her public victory lap is a bit embarrassing, the private one is most welcomed.
I don't know what happened tonight, but I will. I will hear over and over, ad nauseum just where the tide turned. Grace will refuse to let it go, she will keep me awake with her, she will ask me to quiz her, practice with her, she will complain that her opponent cheated, she will deride herself for being too tentative, for playing it safe. She'll continue deep into the night until she is too exhausted to keep her mouth shut or her eyes open.
When I think of the night I could have, should have just scream . . .
SIX LOUSY POINTS!!!