We think the games are fun, but they aren't, not by the time there is a winner and loser. By that time, the games have long ceased to be fun.
The first day is easy. We sit across from each other, eating identical half moons of Colby Jack. Soft, like mozzarella, I lick the mild flavored cheese from the cracks of my teeth. We smile at each other, both thinking ourselves that much closer to victory.
I know that we both skip lunch. We lie to each other though. I tell him I had a block of cheddar and he says he had havarti from the deli that's across from his office.
Dinner that first day is always a competition. We make our cheese casseroles in identical glass dishes. I spread a layer of cream cheese between each of my cheeses. Limburger, cream cheese. Then Gouda, cream cheese. Brie, cream cheese, Cheddar, cream cheese. Then I sprinkle shredded mozzarella and parmesan on top. His tastes are less refined. His casserole is a mix of shredded mozzarella, cheddar and feta cheese crumbles. Still, they bake up and melt the same and we both eat until we cannot move.
By the fourth day, the pain has set in. Both of us are swallowing bottles of prune juice on the sly. I can that his tongue and gums are stained purple, but I don't say anything. It doesn't really help.
Sometime during the second week, we start sleeping in separate rooms. I sleep in our bed and he sleeps in the guest room. I don't think either of us is willing to admit to the pain. It clenches in my stomach and radiates outward. I drink huge jugs of water, hoping that pissing will alleviate some of the pressure.
Sometimes we make it a month before one of us breaks down, but not often. Both our bodies begin to smell of parmesan and blue cheese. At work, people avoid me. It's hard to concentrate on anything.
When he takes my hand, I know that it's over. Or sometimes, I take his hand and press my forehead against his.
"What are your terms?" he whispers.
I think carefully. I have to make it doable, but if I make it too easy he'll know I haven't really won.
Last time I made him do the monkey dance on the front lawn. His arms dangled on either side of him and he jumped back and forth, grunting. The time before that, he pushed me around the house in a shopping cart for a week. One time he asked that I call him "Fredo," instead of "Fred," for a year.
But the winning and losing isn't important. It just matters that it's over and that it won't come again until next January. Every year, the cheese games.
470 words
rating: 6
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