i fought her for β, but she held her own. around and around we went. give it to me, i commanded.

it’s not for you, as turned her chin to leonard, but that was absurd because i’d every right, and i told her so, until she ripped an earring out and it bled at the table.

look at everything i did for you, i hollered and laughed as she soaked up the ear blood with a paper towel. β is mine.

she sat across the table and dealt the cards which the other players used to hide their faces. but i refused to back down, to admit my defeat. she would smell the weakness in me. she would come for me in my sleep, a knife to the throat.

must we? she begged. she simmered. i could see it. she broiled beneath that calmed surface. but how to melt her over the brim? she’d refused me β, and that made me wonder whether β or even φ would ever be enough for her.

i schlepped a round of pink gins to the table. gin is a mother’s ruin, i muttered. maybe this had all been a mistake: the ω, the σ, the λ. i should have vied harder for β, shoved it right in her face and made her stare at it, see its worth, observe its queer beauty.

instead she's silent now and prays i've given up and deals the cards the way she wants. she can forget about β. she can forget about me. i cannot allow that.