The man sits at the table glaring at the woman on the other side. Their eyes lock, causing him to scowl. Both of their shoulders tense up. For twenty six years he has been fighting this woman.
He clenches the edge of the table, causing his knuckles to turn white.
Her hand moves, then she quickly pulls it back. Her tongue clicks, then she growls, “No.”
Watching her intently, he waits for her to make a mistake.
Disbelief spreads across her face.
Maybe, just maybe, he thinks, hope rising.
Her lower lip starts quivering. “Pass,” she mutters, weakly, turning her head away.
“Finally,” he yells and slaps down his last tile onto the game board. “I not only have the last word, but I have also finally beaten my little sister at Scrabble.”
He smiles at her, fondly, realizing that he really does like her.
Maybe he always has.