I put the phone down and turn back to the game of mahjong solitaire. It sits as solid and immovable as when it was abandoned, when the phone call to the friend hurting too far away had finally clunked through.
I cannot see how to progress. Nothing seems to fit neatly into a pair, although logically, there must be moves left to make.
I give up, and go to refill my glass (water) (fucking Sunday night grown-up bollocks), stopping by to kiss the head of my beloved. Working, the moron, the Sunday night away. I hug his shoulders, holding onto him tightly.
Saturday night television greets me as I return to my game and my sofa, as if they thought I’d be sad that I missed it the first time around. I stare at it all the same, the figures blurring into fuzzy, garish masses. I cannot make my mahjong game fit together. I cannot find two tiles that match. I cannot see how to make it work.
Comfy, yet hating shoutiness, I instant message him, fled to the study to avoid the neccesarily female conversation filling the living room.
I: Are you there?
Him: No. I won’t. Not ever. I promise.
I: Thank you.
I: Bit sad.
Him: I’m coming now
I: Thank you.
I: You know, actually, I’d give it a minute if I were you.
Him: Have you just farted?
Him: ok. Well, you know, give me a shout when it’s safe.
I: Ahem. k.
Three dots. Five dots. A tile with a lady. A japanese character, and the number 5. A character and the number 8. An ‘E’, eight dots, a plant, three dots. I make a pair. They disappear off the screen.
And then my love arrives, wrinkling his nose.