The Imagination Game by Natalya Edwards
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(Roll the dice. Move forward one space. It lands on flirting.)
#
“How the hell are you ahead of me?”
She leans against her kitchen worktop and folds her arms. I’ve read more books than her so far this year. She’s frustrated.
I shrug and try to hide my smirk. I enjoy watching her get wound up.
“I don’t know, guess you’re just…a little slower than you used to be.”
“Stop it.”
I’ve been looking at my half-drank cup of tea, swirling the mug to ensure the milk has been fully incorporated and not at all because I was a little nervous about making eye contact.
I feign innocence. “Stop what?”
“This was over,” she says with a smile. I don’t believe anyone in the course of human history has said, ‘this was over,’ with a smile.
“Was it?” I reply, noting her use of past tense.
She nods once.
“Yeah, you can’t flirt with me now, that’s not how this works.”
“I mean I can. And, you can just ignore me. But I don’t think you want me to.”
I put my cup down and walk over to her. I wrap my hand around her wrist and kiss her. She kisses me back. We probably have sex, but this isn’t real.
#
(Roll the dice. Move forward three spaces. It lands on honesty.)
#
“How the hell are you ahead of me?”
I take another sip of my tea. I shrug, feeling an impulse to be sincere.
“I read more when I’m sad.”
She looks down at her feet and presses her lips together, carefully choosing her next words.
“Why are you sad?”
I don’t say anything. Instead, I fidget. I pull a face. I run my hands through my hair, scratching the top of my head a little before letting the hair go. I look at her.
“I should probably be fine after four months, huh? But, I’m not. I miss you.”
She remains still. I begin to regret my honesty. I feel vulnerable, and terrible, and – worst of all – silly.
She takes in a slow breath. Then, “I miss you too.”
“Do you think we can make it work this time?”
“I guess all we can do is try.”
I put down my tea and walk over to her. My arms wrap around her waist, and I press my head against her shoulder. It reminds me of the first time I kissed her, and how strangely nice it felt to hold curved hips in my hands. That makes me wonder whether we’ll kiss now, but I don’t have to think too hard because, well, this isn’t real.
#
(She rolls the dice. She moves forwards five steps to moved on.)
#
“How the hell are you ahead of me?”
I look at my tea, then I look at her and laugh a little.
“Because I’m sad! It’s a distraction.”
She’s quiet. I think she’s taken aback by my words. Then, she nods, just once.
“Yeah, my reading became all-consuming for a while too.” She sips her drink. “It’ll pass. You’ll feel better soon.”
“Yeah. I’m sure I will.”
She walks over and hugs me from behind. For a moment, it feels good. Comforting and warm. I begin to lose myself in it, but then the warmth disappears. Her arms feel like air. She’s gone.
I have made a mistake. She would never hug me like this after a conversation like that. Even if I asked for one, she would say no. It would be completely inappropriate. Not that she would explicitly say that, but I know that’d be the reason why.
Not that it matters anyway. This clearly isn’t real.
#
(Roll the dice. It lands on friendship.)
#
“How the hell are you ahead of me?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Fucking miracle, I suppose.”
“No, I’m just terrible at reading at the minute, I need to get back on track. I was reading this novel and it was fucking awful I haven’t felt like reading anything in weeks. It’s about–”
She tells me about the book. I listen intently. I enjoy hearing the way she talks, especially when it’s her carefully placed razor-sharp criticism.
Whilst she speaks, I try not to think about anything else because she is a friend now, and that’s not fair. She is a friend now, I need to stop imagining all these scenarios that aren’t real. Because, even this, right now, isn’t fucking real.
#
(I’m supposed to roll the dice again, instead I stare at the pieces on the board. They’re Monopoly pieces. Hers is the race car. Mine is the thimble. No one wants to be the thimble. I reach over and turn my piece on its side, in defeat.
“I don’t want to play anymore.”
She looks at me, annoyed. “Why?”
“I will have to go back eventually and anyway this version of you, well, it’s just not quite right. Is it?”
Now I’ve acknowledged it, her complexion greys and her face begins to harden. Then, a small hairline crack appears along her hair parting. It travels down her face, like branches, spreading across her body. Soon, she’s all cracks. Soon, she crumbles. I’m left behind with a mess of rubble and dust.
I fold up the board and place it back in the box, along with the race car and thimble. All I’m left with is the dice. I fiddle with it for a moment then roll it.
I roll a zero. Slightly confused, I shake it and roll again. The number is still somehow zero.)
#
“How the hell are you always ahead of me?” I mutter to myself.
I’m on my Goodreads, she’s logged another book. Meanwhile, I’ve been stuck on the same one for weeks. Every time I read my mind wanders off, constructing better realities.
I log off. I pull out my book and I force myself to read it until it feels natural again. Until this reality is the only one I know. Because this one, and only this one, is real.
Natalya Edwards (she/her) is a writer from the ethereal land of The Wirral but is now based in Manchester. She completed a Creative Writing MA at University of Manchester and works in the heritage sector. She has had recent work published in Northern Gravy and Manchester Anthology IX.