Our Game

By the time the house went quiet, the clock would be flirting with midnight. Dishes done. Lights dimmed. The day folded up and set gently on a shelf. That was our cue.

Jeopardy! would flicker on like a small, dependable campfire in the bedroom. Terry took his position, focused and ready, fingers twitching like a sprinter at the starting line. He was fast. Almost unfairly fast. Questions flew out of him with the confidence of someone who trusted his brain the way sailors trust the stars.

I, on the other hand, brought heart. And occasional, surprising accuracy.

We were competitive in the way people are competitive when they love each other—with laughter. With mock outrage. With dramatic sighs when the other one beat you to the buzzer by half a breath. Some nights I lost spectacularly. Other nights, I landed a clue that made Terry stare at me like I had just revealed a secret superpower.

Pause. Blink. Then a grin.

We didn’t argue with each other nearly as much as we argued with the clue writers. “That is not what the answer said,” we would announce to the television, as if the writers were hiding behind the couch, waiting to be corrected. We had standards. We had opinions. We had a deep and personal relationship with phrasing.

Sometimes, long after the game was over, we were still not satisfied with how it had ended. And of course, we couldn’t go to sleep in that unsettled state.

And it wasn’t just Jeopardy! Things crept up in our other conversations, too. On occasion, we didn’t always agree.

Eventually, we recruited a third player: Google. The friend who never showed up on time and sometimes brought the wrong answer to the party. When things got heated and neither of us would budge, I would lean back and say, sweet as sugar, “Go ask your friend.” Terry would roll his eyes, already reaching for the phone, as if Google and he had an ongoing rivalry (or agreement?) that required regular mediation.

We learned things in those small, late hours. Not just facts. We learned how to disagree without damage. How to be wrong without shrinking. How to be right without crowing. There is a certain tenderness in shared curiosity. It feels like tending a small garden together. You water it. You pull a few weeds. You step back and admire what grew.

If I could, I would trade anything for one more midnight game. Just one more friendly debate with the television. One more moment of quiet triumph over an obscure category.

Just one more Final Jeopardy!

With my Terry.