Page 13 of The Slug Crystal
The beer arrives, cold and foaming, in two pitchers accompanied by two mugs with chilly condensation dripping down the sides. The fries come in a mound so large it seems like a challenge. I eat three in quick succession. The burn of the surprise sauce stings my lips, and making me feel a little bit human again.
The man from the dartboard saunters over, carrying his own glass of beer, and slides into the booth beside Jake without invitation. “You two look like you could use a challenge,” he says, voice pitched for late-night radio. Up close, his eyes are green, not the light, translucent kind, but the color of grass stains after a ball game that went three hourstoo long. His beard has just enough copper in it to appear intentional rather than natural.
I see Jake tense, but the man is all charm. He holds out his hand, and when I hesitate, he grins wider. “Benjamin,” he says. “But everyone calls me Ben. Or, you know, sometimes ‘the guy who hustled them at darts.’”
I take his hand, his grip is warm and dry, and he holds on just a second too long, like he’s testing my pulse through my fingers. “Emma,” I say. “And this is Jake. And that’s, uh?—”
“Your mascot?” he interrupts, gesturing at the snail. “It’s a good luck charm, right?”
I want to laugh. “Something like that.”
Ben’s gaze lingers on the snail, then slides back to me. “You play?”
“I lose, mostly,” I say, but my pride spikes. “But I’ve never been hustled by a man in a bar with this many expired cigarette signs, so maybe tonight’s the night.”
He laughs, deep and genuine, and it fills the booth, warming me to him a little more. His joy pulls me in like a magnet.
Jake interjects, “What’s the buy-in?”
Ben’s eyes don’t leave mine. “Loser buys the next pitcher.”
Jake says, “You’re on,” and I know instantly he is going to regret this. We both are.
We gather at the dartboard, Ben distributing darts like a priest handing out sacraments. He lets me go first, which is both a flex and a warning. I plant my feet, inhale, and aim for the twenty, but hit the edge of the board. The second dart lands in the twelve. The third, miracle of miracles, lands dead in the center of the bullseye.
Ben whistles. “Beginner’s luck,” he says, but I catch the flicker of surprise.
Jake is next. He’s methodical, like everything he does, and lands three solid hits in the double ring. Ben goes last, and his throws are surgical, each one thwacking into the board withthe satisfaction of a nail being hammered home as they hit the bullseye, one after another.
The first round is close, but Ben wins by a hair. He raises his glass to me. “Double or nothing?”
Jake says, “Careful, she’s a sore loser,” but I’m already nodding.
We play again, this time best of three. I lose the first, win the second, and the third comes down to the last dart. I wind up, release, and it ricochets off another dart in the center of the board, landing in the carpet with a thud.
Ben claps, triumphant. “You know what, I like you. But I like winning more.”
He gestures for the bartender. “Two more pitchers, please. And a round of shots, on me.”
I grab my beer and nurse it, trying not to sulk. Jake throws an arm over my shoulder and squeezes. “You did great,” he says, and I feel the stupid prickle of tears at the corners of my eyes. I did much better than last time, but I hate losing.
The shots arrive, tequila, because of course, and Ben slides into the booth again, this time sitting directly across from me. We take the shots and talk a bit, with Ben asking some questions about where we’re from and what we’re doing in town. The latter we answer vaguely.
“Alright,” he eventually says, “you ready for the real bet?”
I raise an eyebrow. “There’s a real bet?”
Ben leans in, eyes glinting. “Winner takes your snail. One round. No do-overs.”
I blink. “You want my snail?”
He shrugs, like it’s the most normal request in the world. “It’s a cool snail. Never seen one with a shell like that.”
Jake starts to protest, but I raise a hand. I look at snail Alex. He’s pressed to the side of the terrarium and waving his antennae at the world, blissfully unaware it’s about to become a pawn in a bar game.
“Fine,” I say. “But if I win, you have to tell me why you really want it.”
Ben’s face lights up. “Deal.”
