a game of chance or skill

"Let's play a game," she said. She slid me a pair of dice, despite the fact that her hands had been empty a moment ago and had not left my sight.

"Chess," I suggested, just to bait her.

"You know how I feel about chess."

"You may have mentioned it, yes." She launched into her usual rant; I took the opportunity to drain my glass and signal for another, my third of the night.

"Every possible move, analyzed and considered. Plotted in advance. And it's not just chess, either!

"Computers can hide their inner workings from anyone not especially versed in such things, but all those feeble video games rely on repetition, strategy. Skill and known quantities, barely any element of chance to them..." The unhappy woman dropped her dice on the bar in now-wordless frustration.

"You sound like you could use a drink." I nudged mine toward her.

She frowned. "Known proof, known ingredients, no thanks."

"Right. Let's tell the bartender you're bored of all the other drinks and want him to mix you something unusual. Like you want something he hasn't made yet tonight, or this week, or you want something you've never heard of."

"But I've heard of so many drinks. They're predisposed to my side—"

Boring! I cut her off. "Skill inhibition—yeah, I know. Forget who you're talking to?"

"Look, it's been a rough day."

"I'll ask the bartender for a list of drinks. We cut it up, one drink per piece, mix 'em up in a hat, and we both drink whatever we pull out. I won't even tell you what yours is."

She gave me her first genuine smile of the night. "Missy, I love you."

"Careful now. I'm not sure if that's legal in this district. Crazy mortal laws."

She took it as I'd hoped and merely laughed. Lucky me.