Roll the dice

Choi Yerim better known as Choerry bursts into your apartment with a dramatic sigh.

“Why does your birthday have to fall in January?” she laments, dropping onto your couch beside the open pizza box.

You look up from your phone. “Um, pardon?”

She rolls her eyes, but her smile turns mischievous. “I got you something.” She pulls a small box from her jacket pocket and holds it out.

You set your phone aside and take it, feeling the weight in your palm. Inside, nestled in black velvet, are a pair of d12s.

They’re metal—surprisingly hefty—and catch the light as you turn them. Where the 12 and 1 should be, there are instead two drama masks: comedy and tragedy, their expressions frozen in eternal opposition.

“These are amazing,” you say, pulling her into a hug.

Choerry accepts it but pulls back quickly. “You’re always playing that game with Dorado and the others. What’s it called? Sword Liver?”

You laugh. “Dagger Heart.”

“Whatever.” She waves a hand dismissively, but she’s still smiling. “I have to go, but I wanted you to have them before your birthday. Your next session is on your actual birthday, right? And I’ll be out of town.”

“I appreciate it,” you say, turning the dice over in your fingers. The metal is cool and smooth.

Choerry punches your shoulder lightly. “You’re welcome.”

You look up at her. “Where did you find these?”

She pauses, thinking, then claps her hands together. “Oh! That magic shop by the ramen place we always go to.”

You nod as she stands and grabs a slice of pizza from the box, folding it in half. “Right—you’ve got that show in the city tonight.”

“You bet your ass I do.” She takes a bite, already heading toward the door.

“Break a leg,” you call after her. “Do great and stay hydrated.”

She laughs over her shoulder. “You’re not my boyfriend, you know.” But there’s something softer in her voice as she says it, and she glances back once more before closing the door behind her.

The apartment feels suddenly quiet.

“I wish,” you mutter to the empty room.

You look down at the dice in your hand, their comedy and tragedy faces staring up at you. “Should I have another slice of pizza?” you ask them.

Just to see how they roll, you toss them onto the coffee table.

Double twelves. Both tragedy masks face up, their hollow eyes boring into you.

You smile and reach for the pizza box—but your hand stops mid-air.

There are two boxes now.

You blink. Look away. Look back.

Still two boxes. Identical. Side by side where there had definitely, absolutely been only one.