The Domino Champion
"Big Shirley runs the toughest domino table in Little Haiti. When a smooth-talking newcomer challenges her crown, she plays for stakes higher than the pot."
The domino table behind Mister Tee's is my kingdom.
Every Saturday night, same players, same stakes, same outcome—me winning. They call me Big Shirley, and I've held this table for fifteen years.
Then Marcus walked in.
"Who's the new blood?"
He's tall, dark, wearing the kind of linen suit that says money. Sits down like he owns the place.
"Marcus Jean-Pierre." His accent is pure Port-au-Prince. "I hear this is the table to beat."
"You heard right." I shuffle the bones. "You ready to lose?"
"I'm ready to play. Winning's a different conversation."
The first game is close.
He plays smart—not flashy, just efficient. Reads the table like he was born at it.
I win by three points.
"Again?" he asks.
"Your money."
We play until midnight.
The score evens out—he takes some, I take some. The other players drift away, bored by our back-and-forth.
"You're good," I admit.
"So are you." He leans back. "Where'd you learn?"
"My grandmother's kitchen in Port-de-Paix." I collect the bones. "You?"
"Same, but in Brooklyn." He smiles. "Haitian diaspora made sure the game survived."
He becomes a regular.
Every Saturday, same seat, same challenge. The games get longer, more intense. The stakes get higher.
"What are we playing for tonight?" he asks.
"Usual. Fifty dollars."
"Let's make it interesting." He meets my eyes. "Dinner. Winner picks the place."
I should say no. Keep it about the game.
"You're on."
I win.
Take him to my cousin's restaurant—the good one, invitation only, where the food tastes like home.
"This is incredible," he says over griot and pikliz.
"It's family."
"Which means?"
"Which means I brought you somewhere that matters." I sip my Prestige. "Don't make me regret it."
He doesn't make me regret it.
Respects the space, learns the names, eats everything without complaint. My cousin corners me in the kitchen.
"You like this one."
"I beat this one. There's a difference."
"Mm-hmm." She gives me that look. "There's no difference. Not with you."
"Why dominoes?"
We're walking on the beach after dinner. Miami glitters behind us.
"Because it's honest." I dig my toes in the sand. "Numbers don't lie. Strategy matters. You can't fake your way through."
"Like life."
"Better than life." I stop, face him. "In life, people lie all the time. At the table, the bones tell the truth."
"What do the bones say about us?"
He steps closer. I should step back. I don't.
"They say we're both stubborn. Both competitive. Both..." I lose my train of thought as his hand finds my waist.
"Both what?"
"Both playing games when we could be playing for real."
He kisses me on the sand.
Tastes like Prestige and possibility. His hands pull me close—not grabbing, appreciating.
"Shirley..."
"My place is ten minutes away."
"Are you sure?"
"I don't gamble with what I'm not willing to lose." I take his hand. "Let's go."
My apartment is small but mine.
He looks around at the photos, the flags, the bones displayed like trophies.
"This is you," he says.
"All of it."
"I want all of it." He pulls me into his arms. "If you're offering."
We don't make it to the bedroom the first time.
Against the wall, on the couch, barely undressed. Years of tension released in one frantic encounter.
"Too fast," he pants after.
"Bedroom's this way." I pull him along. "We'll go slow now."
Slow is better.
He explores every curve, worships every inch. His mouth finds places that haven't been found in years.
"So beautiful," he murmurs against my thigh.
"Stop talking and keep going."
He keeps going.
When he finally enters me, we both still.
"Okay?" he asks.
"Better than okay." I wrap myself around him. "Play to win."
He plays to win.
Deep, strategic, reading my responses like domino patterns. Building toward something inevitable.
"Close," I gasp.
"Together?"
"Together."
Afterward, in my bed, he traces patterns on my skin.
"What are we now?" I ask.
"Partners." He kisses my shoulder. "In every sense."
"I'm still going to beat you on Saturday."
"I'd expect nothing less." He grins. "But Sunday through Friday? We're on the same team."
The domino table notices the change.
Big Shirley has a partner now. Still competitive, still ruthless—but there's something different in her game.
"She's happy," someone whispers.
"She's in love," another corrects.
Both are true.
Marcus moves in three months later.
Brings his suits, his coffee maker, his own set of bones that he swears are lucky.
"This is permanent?" I ask.
"This is everything." He pulls me close. "Best hand I've ever been dealt."
We still play every Saturday.
Still compete like our lives depend on it.
But we go home together.
To the apartment that's ours now.
To the bed where nobody loses.
Some games are worth playing for life.
Some partners are worth keeping.
And some Saturdays—
Winning means something completely different.
Ayibobo.