Board Game Night, Table Four

The game café on Hollis Street runs a Thursday night for strangers. You sign up because your friend promised to come and then didn’t, which is how you end up at table four with a box of colorful wooden trains, a bowl of pretzels and a man in a sweater covered in tiny planets.

“Hi,” he says, standing up so fast his chair wobbles. “I’m Eli. I teach chemistry. I’m warning you now so you can leave if you need to.”

“Why would I leave?”

“Because I have a pun for every element on the periodic table, and I have no self-control.” He sits back down, thinks, and gives you a hopeful look. “I told my class a chemistry joke today. No reaction. I guess the good ones Argon.”

You stare at him.

“…You can groan,” he says. “I’ll allow it.”

You groan. He beams as if you’ve handed him a trophy.

The other two players never show up, so it’s just the two of you and a map of imaginary railroads. Eli explains the rules the way you suspect he explains everything: simply, with his hands, and with a lot of joy in the parts most people skip. When you ask why the blue routes cost more, he tells you about supply and demand, then about how stars are basically giant furnaces making the ingredients for everything, then apologizes for getting distracted, then gets distracted again.

You don’t mind. There’s something about the way he listens that makes it easy to talk. When you mention your week was long, he puts the cards down and asks why, and then he actually waits for the answer. He nods at the hard parts. He laughs at the funny parts, a little too loudly, and the people at table three glance over.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “I’m a laugher. It’s a known issue.”

Halfway through, you realize he has been quietly letting you win. You catch him sliding a perfectly good route card back into the deck.

“Eli.”

“What?”

“You had the long route. I saw it.”

He goes slightly pink. “I wanted you to have fun. First game night. It’s important to have a good reaction to the experiment.”

“Play properly,” you say, “or I’m leaving.”

So he does, and he is ruthless, and it is wonderful. He builds a railroad straight across your plans with a look of deep apology and wins by four points. When the scores are counted, he holds out his hand across the table, very formal.

“Good game,” he says.

You shake it. His hand is warm, and he holds on a moment longer than a handshake needs, then lets go as though he’s just realized it and doesn’t quite know what to do with his fingers.

Outside, the sky has cleared. He stops on the sidewalk and points up. “That bright one isn’t a star. It’s a planet. Most people walk right past it.” He glances at you. “I try not to walk past the interesting things.”

Neither of you says anything for a moment. Then he clears his throat.

“The observatory up on the hill has an open night on Saturday,” he says. “They let you look through the big telescope. I could explain everything. Or,” he adds quickly, “I could try very hard not to explain everything, and just show you. Your choice.”