Playing Games

Megan told Michelle, the third woman she matched with on the dating app, that she had never been with a woman because she wanted an easy orgasm.

Even before Megan’s wife, Kayla, asked for a trial separation, Megan privately felt she’d gotten a little comfortable with her cunnilingus. The tongue pattern repeated itself, and though Megan came with some regularity, she started using her fingers while Kayla was gargling mouthwash. After she was caught twice with her fingers tugging up her hood, she blamed her antidepressants. Kayla blamed her disinterest in receiving oral on her rotations. The women told each other, Okay, then Sure, then nothing.

When their friends back in Durham warned Megan that moving to the Pacific Northwest would be hard because of the weather, she thought, No big. When they told her Kayla wasn’t going to survive a dermatology residency without flaking on their marriage at least a little, she thought, Those are straight-people problems. They were two years into marriage, and seven months into living in a studio apartment near the hospital, with ambulances lighting up the faux wood floor of what they designated as their living room when Megan threatened divorce, and Kayla, hardly awake, said, Okay.

The women couldn’t afford solo living, and neither really wanted to separate, so they quietly let one another off the hook for marital responsibilities. They stopped going down on one another, yes. Megan stopped leaving notes in Kayla’s lunches, though she continued packing the generic Tupperware she used for meal prep. And why not? Kayla was still Kayla, the first woman Megan had ever been with. And Megan was still terrified to move into the world without her.

Megan had two objectives with Michelle: First, the orgasm, which served to reassure Megan that her anatomy was not so terribly complicated it required a physician to navigate. Second, she needed a new tester for her scavenger hunt.

If Megan lost the money she and Kayla had invested into starting the Adventure Emporium (Megan’s idea for a kind of amusement park that offered scavenger hunts to patrons too lazy to plan their own), Kayla would make Megan give up their foster cats, and the thought of being so alone made her lower intestines hurt. The start-up cost was about ten thousand, the amount they’d saved from wedding gifts and a honeymoon they didn’t take on account of Kayla’s limited time off. Megan felt certain the Adventure Emporium would be as big as the ubiquitous escape rooms; she imagined waitlists and bachelorette parties and kid-friendly levels—but people were only really signing up in Seattle’s summers. Few hours of daylight and a steady drizzle didn’t deter Megan during Seattle’s infamous winters, but she was coming to accept that not everyone found self-satisfaction in an unhappy journey. And so: summer.

But really, Megan wanted her business to be more than a hobby. She wanted an identity outside of Kayla. And just as much, she wanted to make Kayla proud, to bring her wife closer. To say: Look at what an independent woman I am! Watch me cross the street without you. Watch me be desired. Megan sometimes worried her wife knew how small and malleable her self-identity felt, all tied up in her marriage. And what, she reasoned, brought confidence like the respect of strangers? So she signed up for a lesbian dating app and got to work.

On the app, Michelle reassured Megan she loved puzzles. I used to do them as a kid, she wrote. My grandparents didn’t let me watch TV so I did, like, a million crosswords. The games weren’t the same as what they had at the Emporium, but Megan told Michelle that sounded like the perfect foundation. Anyone can play, she said. Just don’t cheat.

*

Don’t cheat, don’t cheat, don’t cheat. Michelle’s mantra stayed with her as Megan led her around Pike Place Market, where they sidestepped tourists and cupped their hands to their noses in the fish-throw section. Seattle was midsize, friendly enough for there to be four gay bars and one for lesbians, and had decent walkability if you spent 40 percent or more of your take-home pay on rent, which is exactly what Michelle did. The other thing Michelle did was cheat. On all of her girlfriends and both her fiancées. And truth be told, she was burning through established dykes, which is what led her to stand by the docks beside the aquarium while Megan instructed her to inspect several otter statues in search for, as Megan put it, a nearly imperceptible magnet with a Venus symbol stamped on the inside.

Anyone can play, she said. Just don’t cheat. 

Oh my god, Megan said forty-five minutes of searching later. You’re a natural!

Michelle nodded as though that were a good thing. She preferred her dates in darker, quieter spots, but hey. A girl can change for some beauty, or at least, that’s what she told herself after Megan stopped her from stepping in goose shit.

By the time the women reached the final stage (the red floor of the Seattle Public Library, which Michelle admitted was cooler than she’d anticipated), Michelle was no longer moved by Megan’s beauty. This girl thinks she’s something, Michelle thought while Megan used the calculator app on her phone to determine the final coordinates. Acting like she doesn’t already know the answer. And she did know the answer—after all, she designed the hunts herself. And, as Michelle learned, tested them too. With older people, younger people, people with and without children, people with wheelchairs and walkers. People who carried dogs in purses and cats on their backs. And, apparently, middling journalists from dating apps.

We’re, like, two feet away, Megan said, and Michelle noticed that her voice seemed strained and thought, This woman is insufferable. Michelle felt the defensiveness her exes pointed out burning upward: Yes, she was annoyed, and was that a crime? She couldn’t always be Nice Michelle. Not when the rain hit and she wore her jacket without the hood and she had hoped to be having sex with a virgin.

Michelle didn’t step closer, didn’t peer at Megan’s phone screen, so she didn’t see Michelle had already navigated away from the calculator and was reading and rereading a text from her wife, who, while sitting in the hospital cafeteria, decided texting was an appropriate medium for asking to get back together.

Let’s keep finding our way back to each other, Kayla wrote, then followed the text with a blurry photo of macaroni and cheese on a compostable plate. Sorry, she added. I meant to send that to my sister.

The mac, Megan wrote while Michelle was looking for a decoy screw beneath a bench. The mac was meant for your sister, right? Not the finding each other.

Right, Kayla replied. Obviously.

The women were in their respective homes—Michelle in her basement, Megan in the studio, and Kayla deep-breathing in the on-call room—when Megan responded to a meme of a caterpillar napping on a flower (defeating capitalism, ha, ha!) by telling Michelle she wasn’t ready to commit right now, might be in the future, but could they focus on their friendship? Michelle replied right away, to show she was unbothered, and texted, Obviously! Megan nursed her ego by reminding herself Kayla might not leave her again, anyway, in which case spiraling about Michelle’s apparent apathy could wait. And she’d gotten her orgasm, albeit via fingers in the bathroom of the original Starbucks while thinking about Kayla.

Meanwhile, Michelle sat in the dark and resolved to ruin Megan’s life. Or at least, her game.

Michelle changed only the second clue to start. The game was a play on Sleepless in Seattle, which Michelle had never watched but associated with benevolent heterosexuality. Within days, the hunt brought Michelle all over town. She moved a fake branch six inches to the left at one point, then six inches to the right at another. She tore a corner from a long page of instructions that held the coordinates to a bonus round. She stole the logbook out of one clue but left the clue in its place. She managed to unhook a fake hornet’s nest and spilled its contents—coupons for another game, branded pens, and an array of ask-me-my-pronouns pins—on the sidewalk. People could still play, she reasoned. They could still learn about Amazon by spending more than an hour in the Spheres, they could still count the number of musical instruments in the mural between the speakeasy and the CrossFit gym downtown, they could still take the monorail and count the number of street signs that passed below. They could still have fun, Michelle told herself. And so could she.

Fun, at least, is what she told herself she was having over the six weeks she played her games. Then Michelle saw the post.

Megan and Michelle weren’t connected on social media and hadn’t kept in touch since the just friends text, but they were both part of a neighborhood group for queer people and allies. Michelle, whose account listed her name as “Micky,” went to a cookout once hosted by a pair of older lesbians who embarrassed her by proxy; she was worried about becoming them, boring and happy, and also worried about not and having to rely on a nurse’s aid to gently wash her scalp in old age. Still, Michelle read the posts, as did Megan.

Megan didn’t think it was necessary to post until she realized a couple of punks were messing with her small business. She figured, at first, it was high schoolers. Tech bros who had a couple of drinks and watched players find clues and put them back. But then she got to digging. She needed the distraction with Kayla being at the hospital all night, never texting her for an invite to hook up or nap together in the on-call room, and she was feeling frightened. Megan didn’t think of herself as lonely, but she did think of herself as terrified—her body could stop at any moment, anywhere, and she’d have no chance to redeem herself before the rot set in. So, her searches.

Megan had heard about the Pacific Northwest’s Nazi problem, of course. More so in Oregon than Washington, and certainly not in her progressive hub, but what did she know. Reddit was all over it—people posting photos of hate symbols on their front doors, cars, and even the basketball court of an elementary school. An apartment building in Eastlake got overnight security because residents kept getting recruitment flyers on their doorsteps. An old woman said she stopped leaving her house at all after she saw a skinhead smiling on the bus. The smile was in his eyes too, she wrote. Sick. Megan hadn’t seen any of that herself, and certainly not near her game. But she was frightened and alone and she possessed a very human desire: attention.

Her post was all text, no photos, and involved the careful use of words like allegedly and perhaps and the occasional does that make sense? She nearly created a new profile because she worried “Meggie” read as juvenile, but she kept it, hoping she’d get a little extra sympathy. Comments bumped the post to the top of the region’s feed. I’m not saying it’s Nazis, commenters wrote. But it might be. A senior couple who shared one account wrote: Let’s call it what it is: terrorism. Megan identified the Emporium as gay-woman-owned. Dozens of comments turned to one hundred, then two, then three. Megan replied thanking everyone for their support and said she didn’t want more destruction, only peace. A graduate student asked if Megan had a support system, and she referenced her wife, who she believed had no idea what was happening, but the outpouring of support in response to Megan’s use of wife soothed her.

But she was frightened and alone and she possessed a very human desire: attention. 

Michelle liked the post shortly after it was shared; she didn’t recognize Megan as the poster. Neither woman had a profile picture on the site—too cheugy—but Michelle was a regular user to get story ideas. She disliked field journalism and preferred to do aggregated work, the more dull finance the better, but she maintained a small, happy confidence that she could go viral if she came across just the right story. And what was better than Nazis harassing a small business run by queer women? She saw words like wife and life’s passion and no corporate funds and thought, Perfect. After only skimming the post, she sent “Meggie” a message asking if she’d be willing to talk on the record. Within minutes, the two agreed to meet up at the Starbucks by the market—yes, the original one; it wasn’t too crowded on weekdays—and both women masturbated in bed and then slept as eager as babes.

The women did not run into one another at Starbucks but at the site of the remaining untouched game. This hunt covered the murals of Capitol Hill: the rainbow sidewalks, the enormous café and chairs above Oddfellows, the singers singing outside the club next to the Korean fried-chicken place all three women loved. Megan watched Michelle remove the decoy outlet from the back of a fire hydrant and wondered what might happen if she rolled in front of an oncoming motorcycle. She wouldn’t die, she didn’t think, but people would scream. Someone, she thought, would come to her side. She hoped it would be her wife, but her feet stayed where she kept them, and as though in another world, she heard Kayla ask Michelle if she was playing a solo round.

You’re messing with the clue, Kayla said when Michelle replied she didn’t know what she meant. You’re going to put that in the wrong place.

And who are you, Michelle said, recognizing Megan but worried about outing her. Was the whole place queer? She couldn’t remember. Maybe this woman thinks Megan is still with just men, she thought. She squinted—sisters, maybe.

Don’t worry about who I am, Kayla said. If you’re participating in a game, my wife can confirm your name on the list.

Wife, Michelle said, looking at Megan, who was watching a squaw jay chirp for its mate from a low-hanging wire.

Yeah, Kayla said. Wife. Bother you much?

I’m a journalist, Michelle said slowly. I messaged Meggie to speak to her about what’s been happening with the scavenger hunts. I was just checking it out for myself. She was getting that high she got, the adrenaline from the lying, the rush of getting caught and tipping her way outside of consequences. She liked guilt and liked making herself feel it, always later, always alone.

Let’s retrace the steps, Megan said. That’s what you’ll need to do, isn’t it? As an investigator.

I thought this spot hadn’t been hit yet, Kayla said, and Megan felt flattered at her wife’s unexpected conscientiousness. Kayla had heard all about the attacks on Megan’s business since she’d mentioned a journalist wanting to talk to her, but she didn’t expect her partner to actually remember specifics.

We’ll go all over the city, Megan said. Until we’re satisfied.

The Space Needle, Kayla said. And that glass museum, with the sculptures.

Right, Megan said. She was pretty sure she hadn’t mentioned the sculptures.

Michelle said Sure, and all three women were nervous about the same thing for different reasons. The nervousness translated to a queer happiness—the women, at one point or another, each individually felt they were on an excellent second or third date. While at Pike Place, Megan and Michelle didn’t mention their previous time there together and instead journeyed into the basement to lament the closure of an independent bookstore. They ate small hot donuts, and Kayla made an amicable trade for Michelle’s classic in favor of her sour cream. Michelle felt attended to; no one huffed when she had to use the restroom one time more than everyone else, and no one got fussy when she asked for a photo against exposed brick. They were dutiful in their checks, each taking time to peer beneath bricks for a hate symbol or Google graffiti tags—just in case, they each said, eyes on their phone screens, just in case. They didn’t understand yet what they didn’t know.

It was Megan who ended it, if you can believe it. The Space Needle had four clues: one in the gift shop, one beneath the ice cream machine outside of the gift shop, one on the level with a glass floor, and one at the top viewing center. The women checked on all four and, of course, found the clues and, of course, found no evidence. Megan said the Needle had 24-7 security cameras, and Michelle finished her thought, saying she had her press badge on her; they’d probably let her look when she explained the story, if they asked questions at all. Kayla affirmed the existence of such cameras, as she’d checked into the possibility of being recorded the first time she rearranged the game pieces in the structure (notes behind a mirror in the women’s bathroom were switched to beneath the sink in the one for families, a keychain meant to unlock a box in the gift shop moved from above the ice cream machine to below it).

At the security desk, the women watched themselves mess around. The women weren’t surprised at each other’s behavior—if they could cause such a small chaos, after all, why wouldn’t the bodies beside them be just as capable? Megan messed with the game first, then Michelle, then Kayla, an order that surprised none of them. The shock came from their shared experience, the rich acceptance of seeing women act in just the same way—each looked at the ceiling camera during the act, chin upward, smiling not with her mouth but with her eyes.

The security guard asked if they were finding the solution to the problem, if they were getting what they were looking for, and the women touched one another’s wrists together, all three heroes of their own destruction in a neat line, and nodded. Megan said they were good, thanks, just thinking about the next level, and the women each took a hand of hers.

When they left, still holding hands, the security guard shook the dregs of her coffee, considered what she owed a company that paid her only thirteen dollars an hour, and got herself to the gift shop. After all, she had a game to play.

• 0