At the bowling alley we argued about whose turn it was although the answer was clear on the screen. Merima held a ball; I held my conviction that the machine was mistaken. The waiter bringing water looked at the screen, then us, and wisely said nothing. We had been together eight years, and people said we were well matched because we were both competitive. That evening I first wondered whether it was actually a compliment.
We competed at more than games. Who found parking faster, estimated costs more accurately, knew the shorter route to the shop. Every detail had a winner, and the loser laughed a little too loudly. At the beginning it amused us. Later it became hard to admit not knowing something, being tired, or wanting a route merely because it was prettier. Everything required proof.
Merima put down the ball and sat. She said she did not want the rest of the evening spent protecting my mood if I lost. I immediately replied that she was the same. She nodded and said that was exactly why we needed to stop. I had no prepared reply to agreement. I sat beside her while balls hit pins in the neighboring lane. I admitted the machine had not angered me; the possibility she understood something before I did had.
Merima laughed, but not mockingly. She said she was tired of softening her own satisfaction so I could remain cheerful. I admitted often correcting her deliberately before others. We did not attribute everything to a love of sport. Part of it was fear of being worth less if we appeared ordinary people who sometimes made mistakes. It sounded serious for a place where we wore rented colored shoes.
We resumed playing. We neither hid the score nor agreed that one should lose deliberately. Merima won. I congratulated her and felt it was not entirely easy, but said it without adding an explanation. Afterward we went for food. When she suggested the longer route, I asked why. She wanted to pass the illuminated park. I agreed although I knew a shorter way.
We still compete. Sometimes it pleases us; sometimes one says there is no energy for it that evening. The biggest change was not how often we won but how quickly we noticed the other person had stopped enjoying it. Last week Merima took a wrong turn on our way to friends. Rather than announce the score, I opened the window. The street smelled of roasting chestnuts, and we decided to stop before finding the proper route.