I just want to say, from the bottom of my purse full of arcade tokens, I’m sorry.
I know when we walked in the arcade as man and woman you didn’t expect to leave a shriveled, broken little boy. I didn’t understand the power my lady elbow could unleash. I let the thrill of playing a casual arcade game distract me from the fact that it’s my job, nay, DUTY to uphold centuries-old gender roles.
My first mistake came earlier in the evening when I offered to pay for our first round of drinks. You rightfully looked at me like I was an Oompa Loompa trying to overthrow your chocolate factory. You Willy Wonka. Me Idiot.
“I’m sorry,” I said cutting my debit card into millions of little pieces so I wouldn’t make the same mistake again. The tension of an Oompa Loompa trying to have any power hung thickly in the air as you suggested Skee Ball. You walked up to the machine with the confidence of Rocky Balboa approaching a boxing ring.
“You can go first,” you grinned at me, inserting the tokens into the machine and sending a row of fresh Skee Balls rattling down the line.
I picked one up and rolled it toward the targets. 50 points.
“Oh shoot, I’m sorry,” I said while punching myself in the arm.
You laughed unphased at my “lucky shot”, already looking down on me from your almighty Skee Ball throne. I could feel the hot air from your breath on my neck as you stood uncomfortably close behind me. Your face started getting red as your own throws fell into the 10 point gutter over and over. I quickly rushed to my car and built skee ball bumpers in the hope it would help you suck less, but to no avail.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Oh, NO.” I repeated over and over as my cursed elbow sent the Skee balls gliding elegantly into the top holes. I’ll never forget the look on your face as my final skee ball ricocheted into the 100 point hole and I knew I lost you forever.
“I can’t believe you beat me,” you said, face turning red.
I shook my head solemnly. I can’t believe I had the physical dexterity to even drive to this arcade much less beat you in Skee Ball.
I had a blast spending time with you as you pouted your way through Donkey Kong, Mortal Kombat, and air hockey. I swooned as you punched Ms. Pacman in the face because the machine glitched.
An hour later I was back in my car driving home when I get a text. “I’m just not feeling it,” you said, ending our whirlwind of a romance after one single date.
Right then I vowed to have my right elbow professionally dislocated before partaking in any dates with gentlemen such as yourself. I didn’t want to keep you waiting so I texted back while in an intersection and managed to hit send on two little words before a semi-truck obliterated my vehicle and body.
“I’m sorry.”
