"I doubt I'm any better," I say and we walk over to Street Fighter II. I've chosen this bar arcade—a barcade, or beercade, as it were—for our second date. Something a little fun, something a little goofy. The lights and the noises and the beers make for a good atmosphere. I'm enjoying myself and she seems to be, too. She's not very good at anything, but neither am I. There's a certain charm in equally sucking at something.
She chooses Chun-Li, the lone woman, and I choose Ryu because I always choose Ryu. She beats me quickly, laughs, beats me quickly again, squeals. "Are you letting me win?" she asks. That's a complicated question. Let her win for what reason? Because she's a girl and I think she's needs help winning? Because she's terrible? Because I've been hiding my talent this whole time? None of these are true, but I can't quite answer no. However, "No," is what I say.
I suppose it's condescending. Selfish, too. I am playing slightly under my level, just enough, so that she beats me and I can watch her be happy. Can I say this on a second date? Hell no. A smile so wide and an eye so bright, any excuse I can get to look at them I'll take. And if that means throwing my favorite arcade game then so be it. But it sounds crazy, to say something like that, to say it so soon. "Too many beers!" "Not enough," and she takes our empties for another round. She orders two more and gets talked to by some guy. She says something and comes right back.
Soon I am lying in a pool of my own blood, the gleaming "K.O." hovering over my mangled Japanese body. She holds up her glass for a toast, gives me an awww face, and smiles. "Man," she says, "you're bad at this."
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