day they found an apartment for her. He didn’t blame her, completely. After months of hellish arguing, something—ball—had quite obviously snapped her slender faith in the two of them. Perhaps it had been—ball—his obsequious, impossible promises that he would revamp his entire personality. Ball. She had not been cruel, ever. Livid, certainly, and even—ball—ugly, but never cruel—ball—and even to the end, constantly—ball—reaffirming—ball—that she loved him, which made it all the more—ball—difficult.
The face was back. He snatched the ball out of the air and turned to the door. A woman in shorts and a black T-shirt stepped into the court holding a racquet. Her eyes were dark and her hair swept low across her forehead. Her belly was flat, and her breasts sagged fully against her narrow torso.
“You have a partner?” There was a husked-out sexiness to her; what remained implied what had been, and she had lost that slight layer of flesh that keeps a woman soft-looking. Instead, she appeared burned away to a tough and stringy essence. He noticed her arms hung easily at her side and were corded with muscle. Wide in the shoulders, almost bony.
“No.” Peter waved her in and wondered if he would have to pansy the ball so as not to embarrass her too much.
“You serve first.” She faced the front wall. “I’m warmed up.” She stood on her toes, with her knees bent, leaning forward and swinging the racquet back and forth in concentration.
Peter thought for a moment. Medium-hard serve, something that would force her to react but would give him enough time to get to center court. He bounced the ball and gave it a good whack. The ball jumped off the front wall right at the woman. With a graceful yet quick stroke—a chop, really—she sliced a tight backhand, and the ball grazed the side wall, touched the front wall, and dropped dead, unhittable.
“I’m Cassandra.” She touched him on the shoulder with her racquet. “Nice to meet you.”
She won the first game 21-16. Cassandra had certainly played a lot of racquetball. She knew all the angles and anticipated the ball. But, he muttered to himself, he had the speed and power and the youth on her. He would serve now with all his strength, and try to whisk tough low serves into the back corners where she would have to scoop them out, giving him a chance at the kill shot.
They started the second game, and he felt the sweat really coming now, the deep breathing. His legs felt full of striated strength, his right shoulder pumped large. He gave his all to each shot, scuttling quickly into position, blasting, slicing, cutting the ball, anything to get the angle. Cassandra moved assertively across the court. At 15-15 he dug her serve out of the backhand corner and looped a drop shot off the wall. She got to it and swung a bit too hard on a drop shot of her own. Sprinting toward the front wall, he figured on a low blast that would pass her on the forehand side before she had a chance to reach it. He set up and blasted, knowing full well she could not return the shot. The ball exploded off the front wall. He turned to admire its placing, and as he spun his head,a speeding blue circle appeared inches away from his eyes, and then, before he knew it, he was flat on his back, his head ringing, the blood high behind his eyes. His forehead stung.
“Hup.”
She stood over him and helped him up. Her grip was strong.
“How in fucking hell did you get that shot?” he said.
She did not answer and they stood before each other in the white-walled box, breathing deeply, skin flushed and sweaty. Peter looked down into Cassandra’s face. A pumped, sweat-gleaming vein snaked over her temple. She had a thin, sharp nose, and her mouth was set with devouring intensity; her face was that of a person who had outlasted many others. Cassandra swung her racquet back and forth unconsciously.
“I think we may be out of time,” he said, checking his watch. “My hour’s
The face was back. He snatched the ball out of the air and turned to the door. A woman in shorts and a black T-shirt stepped into the court holding a racquet. Her eyes were dark and her hair swept low across her forehead. Her belly was flat, and her breasts sagged fully against her narrow torso.
“You have a partner?” There was a husked-out sexiness to her; what remained implied what had been, and she had lost that slight layer of flesh that keeps a woman soft-looking. Instead, she appeared burned away to a tough and stringy essence. He noticed her arms hung easily at her side and were corded with muscle. Wide in the shoulders, almost bony.
“No.” Peter waved her in and wondered if he would have to pansy the ball so as not to embarrass her too much.
“You serve first.” She faced the front wall. “I’m warmed up.” She stood on her toes, with her knees bent, leaning forward and swinging the racquet back and forth in concentration.
Peter thought for a moment. Medium-hard serve, something that would force her to react but would give him enough time to get to center court. He bounced the ball and gave it a good whack. The ball jumped off the front wall right at the woman. With a graceful yet quick stroke—a chop, really—she sliced a tight backhand, and the ball grazed the side wall, touched the front wall, and dropped dead, unhittable.
“I’m Cassandra.” She touched him on the shoulder with her racquet. “Nice to meet you.”
She won the first game 21-16. Cassandra had certainly played a lot of racquetball. She knew all the angles and anticipated the ball. But, he muttered to himself, he had the speed and power and the youth on her. He would serve now with all his strength, and try to whisk tough low serves into the back corners where she would have to scoop them out, giving him a chance at the kill shot.
They started the second game, and he felt the sweat really coming now, the deep breathing. His legs felt full of striated strength, his right shoulder pumped large. He gave his all to each shot, scuttling quickly into position, blasting, slicing, cutting the ball, anything to get the angle. Cassandra moved assertively across the court. At 15-15 he dug her serve out of the backhand corner and looped a drop shot off the wall. She got to it and swung a bit too hard on a drop shot of her own. Sprinting toward the front wall, he figured on a low blast that would pass her on the forehand side before she had a chance to reach it. He set up and blasted, knowing full well she could not return the shot. The ball exploded off the front wall. He turned to admire its placing, and as he spun his head,a speeding blue circle appeared inches away from his eyes, and then, before he knew it, he was flat on his back, his head ringing, the blood high behind his eyes. His forehead stung.
“Hup.”
She stood over him and helped him up. Her grip was strong.
“How in fucking hell did you get that shot?” he said.
She did not answer and they stood before each other in the white-walled box, breathing deeply, skin flushed and sweaty. Peter looked down into Cassandra’s face. A pumped, sweat-gleaming vein snaked over her temple. She had a thin, sharp nose, and her mouth was set with devouring intensity; her face was that of a person who had outlasted many others. Cassandra swung her racquet back and forth unconsciously.
“I think we may be out of time,” he said, checking his watch. “My hour’s
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