Every Christmas season it’s the same. The hard-scrabbling fight for presents, the intense gleam in greedy eyes as we steal the gaily wrapped packages, the glint of green and red holiday lights on the dice as they clatter against metal.
Lights dim low in Nancy’s living room as we eight women sit cross-legged on the floor, like children, except for one of us who leans low from her chair to throw the dice.
We’re looking for sixes or ones to land face up. If we throw the magic numbers, we get to choose a package. We already know what lies wrapped beneath the gold and green paper, inside that elf stocking, under those dangling bright purple balls. We know books lie within the package, for we’re at Book Club, our annual Christmas book exchange.