Among the things handed into the lost property department today were: Four pairs of spectacles, two handbags, one laptop, three library books, six sets of keys, one red stiletto shoe.
There were six of them. They were arranged at the only table in the small neighborhood pub that would accommodate them all. This is where they always sat, in the back. Two women, four men, all residing in the same apartment building four blocks away in five different apartments.
They were halfway through a game of Yahtzee—they almost always played the old, beat-up version the pub owned, complete with the mismatched dice, when they came—and the odds were as consistent as the table:
Loser has to walk the four blocks home naked.
These were the rules. In their late twenties, some wondered why they still found the whole situation amusing, but they still couldn’t help but chuckle every time. Although, they thought when they thought about it, the lager could always take the blame for it.
On the table: four pairs of spectacles (belonging to the avid readers who drained their eyes young), two handbags (the ladies’), one laptop (life source of the one who worked late and almost always missed the first round), three library books (graduate school was a killer), all six sets of keys, and one red stiletto shoe.
A full house. Two of a kind. Four sixes (to the moans and groans of the rest). And a chance. Then a straight. And finally,
It didn’t take too many more rolls around the table before the winner was announced. Everyone ordered more beer. Mr. Graduate Student had lost, but no one was rubbing it in yet. Conversation took over and more beers were ordered when the previous were finished. And then came last call.
The dregs downed and heads fuzzy, it was time for the walk of shame. And in the hilarious and hasty escape, everything was left on the table, forgotten ‘til sober.