He is holding a hundred-dollar bill, folded in half. He says, I’ve written something on this bill. If you can guess what it is, I’ll give the bill to you.
I don’t want to play this game, she says.
Please.
We’re married, she says. We share our money. The bill is already half mine.
Conceptually possessing fifty dollars is not the same thing as holding one hundred dollars in your hand, he says.
That’s true, she admits. But I’m not going to play your game.
He says, Then you’ll never know what I’ve written.
I don’t want to know what you’ve written, she says.
Yes you do, he says.
He’s right. She does want to know. But because he wants to show her, she says, No.
But then, five minutes later, she says, Fine. I’m not going to guess, but I want you to show it to me.
If you don’t guess, you’ll never get the money.
I don’t care, she says.
So be it, he says, and unfolds the bill. In large black letters, he has written, YOU LOSE.
I hate you, she says, meaning it.
I’m sorry, he says, not meaning it. Here, he says. Take the money.
I don’t want the money.
He gets up and walks out of the room, leaving the bill on the table.
When he returns, she is gone.
The bill, too, appears to be gone, until he looks more closely. A pile of ash lies in its place. Only one small corner remains, on which she has written, in a tiny, precise hand, SO DO YOU.