sore loser

she looks up a word
on her phone
unable to use the z
the q
and a slew of
a's and o's
on her scrabble
collection of tiles.
that's cheating you
say, raising
your eyebrows
while eyeing the score.
it's close.
very close, so close
that it may come
down to the last
letter, or
word or what's
subtracted that can't
be used.
hey, hey you say,
trying to take
the phone out of her
hand.
it's just a game,
she says, calm down.
why are you so afraid
of losing, she
smirks.
cheaters are losers,
you say in high pitched
voice, which
surprises both you
and her.
I see where this is
going, she says,
and tips the board
over. I'm done with
this game. I'm going
to bed.
hmmmm. you say.
looking at the scorepad,
you are in the lead
by six points.
quietly you pick up
the scattered tiles,
fold the board up
into its box, then
stand up and do a silent
dance of victory about
the room, pumping
your fists into
the air with glee.