Jon and Sarah had first met at the tree in the big field and had proceeded to meet there for seven years. The field was enclosed by trees on all sides, and on two opposing sides of the field beyond the trees were two opposing roads. Jon and Sarah lived in houses on those roads. Jon had retreated to the tree in times of distress and boredom, and after establishing it as "his spot" had spotted Sarah there one day. He approached the tree with a sense of entitlement.
"What do you think you're doing here?"
"Sitting."
"Well this is where I sit, and I've never seen you here before, so get out of here and we'll pretend it never happened."
Sarah stood up. She had more than a few inches on him, along with a few years.
"I'll rock-paper-scissors you for it."
Jon scowled. She had found his weakness. At eight years old, Jon was a master bargainer, debater and compromiser. He enjoyed taking any disagreement into argument and finding his way of convincing the other person of anything. That was until a year ago, when his mother, having seen the ambitious politician in him (she hated politicians with every ounce of her hybrid-driving, weed-smoking, Nader-voting heart), posed the rock-paper-scissors match of all rock-paper-scissors matches. The terms: win, and he gets to debate anything to the end of eternity; lose, and every fight or disagreement that bears no clear winner must be decided on rock-paper-scissors. He lost. The sight of scissors made him sick.
"Fine," said Jon, "let's do it." A year of practice had sharpened Jon's skills as psychologist of the hand. He did not expect to tie in every one of ten matches. He left in defeat, but knew he had found his equal. The tree was no longer his, it was theirs.
In seven years, Jon and Sarah perfected the art of rock-paper-scissors. RPS, as they came to call it, enabled them to pursue psychology, but only as it pertained to RPS. Once a week they met at the tree, conducting research by themselves, eventually bringing other people as test subjects. The experiments went well: they high-fived each other often.
The experiments led to publications in psychoanalysis journals that won them international acclaim from a strange group of socially-repressed people, who labeled them as prodigies. They won over 200 awards alone for their third report, "Why Does Paper Beat Rock?", half named after Freud. It was a dull trophy case.
The bright young minds started work on their book, always writing at the tree, which was now surrounded by desks, file cabinets and a secretary named Gena. Jon was in love with Gena, but no time for that. He was also learning to suppress his rage over Sarah, never letting go of the first RPS match that started it all. With seven years of work, he had finally grown to appreciate Sarah for who she was, and decided to put their research above a silly game and a grudge.
The book had been released and the publicity tour had followed. Sarah decided to do Australia alone, and Jon hadn't bothered to argue. He was to meet her at 4 p.m. on the day she returned. Like a bride to her wedding he walked the long, familiar walk to the tree as he had thousands of times before. It was a good day, he could feel it.
Standing under the tree was not Sarah, but her brother Clyde. Jon did not like Clyde, did not like anyone named Clyde and did not think polo shirts were acceptable seven days a week. But Clyde looked distraught and Jon had to know what the matter was.
"Why the long face, Clyde?"
Clyde was silent for several moments.
"The plane...her returning plane...it crashed. She's dead."
Jon was taken aback and expressionless.
"Oh...I'm so sorry Clyde. I - I have to go. Goodbye now."
Turning around and grinning, Jon thought, "Finally! I always hated going to that godawful tree."
