Game Over

Navels are an innie or an outie. Ruby sported the innie; Coral the outie.

My bestie rang me midweek, a few days after the salami-making and chess match. Coral invited me to the local ice-skating rink. Unfortunately, she qualified the invitation; Ruby would be there; the request belonged to the brunette.

Coral drove to the skating rink on a muggy Wednesday, high summer, January '75. It surprised me as she caught her clutch and ground a poor gear change. Ruby used her smarts, picking the coolest venue, sensible on a hot day. I wondered why Coral persisted in asking me to go to the rink. I accepted, hoping she hesitated at the gates of uncharted sexual induction. The golden girl mastered pussyfooting.

For a while, my thoughts lingered; do anything; it stays done, like Coral and me in the boathouse.

Coral reminded me of a traveller who insists on a map to plan a route to explore the unknown. Ruby focussed on immediate goals in sight, the next hurdle in show jumping, the upcoming buoy in sailing and the liaison pursued.

As we drove to the rink, Coral's silence persisted.

I mulled; Coral could kiss the brunette and say, Nah. She could tell Ruby to stop, and the brunette would, at any point. Then, Coral would realise, tasting Ruby, to choose me.

Though I suspected Coral's quietude as she drove reflected a deeper cross-examination of herself as I squirmed on the car seat. Her love life resembled a hung jury. In choosing, she compared to Josh. Even if Coral had rarely spoken about him since the boathouse, Josh still held how much of her heart?

Coral heard the squelch between my skin and the vinyl as I twitched—sticky car seats and wearing shorts.

"Sorry, it's tacky and the same for me," she said, changing gears.

My eyes loitered, roaming her thighs because her mango skirt proved short today. Brooding, dry-mouthed, I realised her dress selection favoured Ruby. I twisted and fidgeted, blaming the adhesive vinyl. Introspection divulged Coral, Ruby and me at eighteen, where a youthful body-to-body seeking overwhelmed each of us.

After parking in the shade near the ice rink, Coral walked rapidly through the sapping heat to enter the venue. Inside, the air conditioning did its magic cooling act as we scanned the foyer.

Ruby leaned off to the left, where the pinball machines lined the walls. Neon flashed, flippers thwacked, coins clinked into slots, and bings and pings highlighted scoring goals reached.

The brunette ignored it all; she focused on the entry doors as we pushed through them. Snack food packets and milkshake cups littered the spaces between the machines. A long-haired teen dropped a twenty-cent coin, and it rolled across the lino floor.

Coral and I approached Ruby side by side. The brunette snubbed the coin as it rolled into her sandal and spun to a halt. The little minx turned her nose up at my presence and gravitated her attention to consuming Coral.

My bestie bent and handed the coin to the lad who had halted, hands in his pockets, trying to figure out how to enter the brunette's personal space. The guy mumbled thanks to Coral and returned to the pinball machine.

Ruby was impressive in a dress sense on a blistering day. She wore tight, faded jeans; the brunette had nothing physical to hide. The denim defined her thighs and belonged on her hips. She wore a soft white blouse top. I suspected the adjustments to it came after leaving her momma's gaze. Ruby had opened the top two buttons of her blouse, allowing her push-up bra to lift her chest and lure. She hoisted and tied off the front of her blouse, revealing her navel—a simple and provoking gesture to draw Coral's approval.

Ruby's cute innie held my eyes a tad too long before my gaze shifted to her high ponytail that stressed her cheekbones to pixie smoking-hot. Ruby and entrapment, Coral and I, knew her approach. She set multiple points of interest on her body with the aim of at least one working. On this day, I appreciated her mascara magic. The petite miss could curl and elongate her lashes.

Still, Coral presented deliciously, wearing a pleated saffron skirt and a crisp white t-shirt. Her loose hair curved her shoulders.

"Let's hit the ice, sweetie," Ruby requested, nudging her girlfriend by the elbow.

Ruby commanded a vast skill advantage over Coral and me with skating. Her decisiveness caused Coral to hesitate.

The golden girl projected calm, and I sensed she preferred a relaxed pace for whatever might unfold.

"Come on, I'm wearing a skirt," she pointed out the obvious.

She then wagged her finger at the brunette, playful.

Her eyes scouted our immediate surroundings, wall-to-wall arcade entertainment.

"I'd like some pinball," she directed to Ruby before Coral asked me, her hand extended, requiring machine coins.

Her skirt lacked pockets, and her satchel idled at home. I grabbed a few coins deep in my shorts as I hadn't intended to skate. Instead, I preferred a pinball machine with a high score to improve.

Now I picture Coral centred, Ruby on one shoulder, and I moulded to her other. My bestie chose Flip-a-Card, my high-score toy. The golden girl glided into the zone, displaying vigorous concentration as her gameplay progressed unrelentingly. She ignored the bell and whistle features and focused on the ball. Within minutes, her score rocketed to spare ball territory.

Time dragged for the brunette; she ordered me, "Go get us a shake."

I considered a 'no' because I enjoyed Coral's sensational effort, and drinks could wait.

But, as I paused, Ruby's eyes launched. Do as instructed!

Before I wandered to the canteen, I focussed on Coral's whirring fingers, convinced a long game lay ahead. As I ordered the milkshakes and waited, my confidence increased.

Ruby would struggle to deliver the sensuality to lure Coral away in a public rink.

Besides, her play style suggested my bestie would pass my machine record score.

So relaxed, I gathered three chocolate milkshakes in my hands, a bounce in my steps, upbeat about the afternoon; Coral remained close to me. But, as I returned to the pinball alcove balancing the shakes, I knew my high score remained beyond Coral's reach. The lithe brunette nestled her body behind and bent into my Californian poppy, grinding Coral's rump. My bestie, half-hearted, continued to play the machine.

Ruby's hands spread on Coral's hips. Then Ruby's fingers patted her girlfriend's behind. The brunette's hands drifted under Coral's skirt, kneading her panties. The hussy. She either knew no one gazed, or she no longer cared. Some self-absorbed solo pinball players faced machines, including the lad who collected the rolled coin, uninterested and unaware of Ruby and her quarry.

The brunette massaged Coral's butt, and she relished it. My bestie wasn't using her hands to remove Ruby's fingers. My golden girl's slow-burning fuse of desire delivered its smouldering heat.

Uncomfortable and sloshing the milkshakes, I thought the pair should be outside as their intensity matched the furnace blaze of the afternoon. My unsteady shuffle drifted to their space, clutching three drinks between my hands and chest.

Ruby whispered in my dream girl's ear. I watched her blow her warm breath on Coral's slender neck. Coral's fingers slid across the glass cabinet and ignored the flipper buttons. The game flashed her final score, below my record. One of Ruby's hands remained under Coral's skirt. The other lifted and smelt her hair. Coral's eyes closed like a smitten kitten.

Then, I confronted what I secretly knew but refused to acknowledge. The race I could never win pitted against Ruby. The brunette tracked Coral using the inside lane. I circled, fantasising in lane eight.

Coral hankered for Ruby! I wished Josh to resurface in Coral's thoughts and temper her direction.

"Game over," purred Coral, "Ruby, let's go to the boathouse."

Gripping the shakes, I said, "What about these?"

A mellow, sincere Ruby hummed, "Enjoy the drinks, sunshine; take the entire afternoon to beat your high score. Catch you later."

Eager to go, she grabbed Coral's hand.

Coral released herself and moved in front of Ruby.

My lifelong friend started, "Luke."

No more words came. I comprehended the apology in her eyes—my unnecessary comradeship at the rink.

"I'll be fine," a croak in my voice.

Coral rested her palm on my shoulder while my hands twitched with fricking shakes. Her fingers lingered, then slid and detached. My bestie laced her fingers briefly before she sidled and clutched Ruby's hand. Together, they sidestepped me. My last image of the pair at the rink, a content Coral, leaned on Ruby's shoulder as they departed.

Left in the pinball alcove with three milkshakes slopping, I trundled to the trash can, picturing Coral and Ruby sparkling.

In the boathouse. Our together spot.

I trashed the three drinks. I mulled; whatever happened in the boathouse portended as private. Yet, chance determined, I spied them paired—no peeping tom at the boathouse, the accidental stings harder. A week later, I drifted to the spring alone as a comforting spot because I assumed Coral was spending time with Ruby. I missed my bestie's phone chats. However, as I approached the spring, I spied the tormenting—an intimate Coral and Ruby.

At the skating rink, my last memory is the milkshakes as I hurled them in the bin. A downcast gaze focused on the milk, frothing and gurgling, at the base of a trash can. I couldn't play pinball. Instead, I rushed outside the rink yet dawdled a circuitous walk home, letting the sun burn my neck. My mind drifted to Coral and myself in the boathouse. After our intimacy, I recalled thoughts about Josh interrupting my reflections on Coral.

During a plod beside the river, I now pictured Ruby, and she interrupted my boathouse memory. I jingled loose coins in my pocket, wished Coral played pinball with me, and Ruby skated alone. Finally, I touched my neck; I baked to sunburn without a collar.

Distracted patting my neck, I nearly skidded on gravel and stumbled, treading through a spilt slosh of summer ice cream. Trickles of vanilla, strawberry and chocolate attracted ants. After regaining my balance and wiping my shoes using nearby grass, I fancied shedding Coral's skirt; though her semblance faded, it washed away. I loathed my frame of mind, but worse, I imagined the brunette peeling off Coral's saffron mango skirt. My neck inflamed as I entered my home. The skin peeled sore the next day.

Now, my memory peels my quintessential thoughts to saffron. The spice remains forever intense and nuanced. Arousing, the most bittersweet of yearnings unredeemed.