Monica Bloom by Nick Earls

and he remembered it, though not always precisely.
    â€˜That’s a lot of animals,’ I said. ‘When surely, for most of us, you see one rat squatting over the nuts and that’s more than enough.’
    Katharine said, ‘Yuk,’ and Monica laughed and said, ‘Hi, Matt, by the way.’
    She was behind Katharine and holding her racquet in front of her. I said hello, and knew I was about to stare, to analyse the smile she gave me more than I should. Thehandle of her racquet clunked against the verandah railing and she nearly dropped it. She caught it awkwardly and her cheeks went pink.
    â€˜Balls,’ Erica said, and she handed me a tin. She led the way to the court, talking over her shoulder as we walked single file along the flagstones. ‘So, how’s it going at your place? Many people through? Are you keeping the creepy ones out?’
    I couldn’t care. In that minute I couldn’t care about our side of the fence, my life over there. I’d spent days thinking about the next time I would see Monica, and now here she was.
    â€˜With the exception of the real estate agent maybe,’ I told her, and Andy said, ‘Oh, yeah,’ and gave me another jab in the back with his racquet.
    I let him catch up with me as we walked onto the court and towards the far end, and as we passed the net I said to him, ‘The good thing is, I can give you a completely crippling dead arm for that racquet poking any time I want. It doesn’t have to be now.’
    â€˜Really?’ he said nonchalantly, and he gave his racquet a spin. ‘Why not now?’
    â€˜Decorum.’ I walked over to the forehand side.
    â€˜Not in front of the ladies?’ he said, but pronouncing it ‘lay-deez’. ‘That’s never stopped you doing anything before.’
    â€˜And it’s not stopping me now. It’s just simple tennis etiquette: don’t harm your brother too grievously oncourt.’ I was annoyed with my mother for making me include him. I rolled a ball out of the tin and patted it to him with my racquet. ‘Now, hit this to one of those nice lay-deez and let’s get this started.’
    He whipped it over to Erica, and then slugged her miss-hit backhand return down the line. Andy was a clean hitter of the ball, but he never cared much about where it went, though he seemed to play in a way that meant partners never held it against him.
    Monica worked on her ground strokes first, then stood at the net popping volleys at my feet. It might have been just me, but there were times when it felt like there were only the two of us on court. She was wearing a singlet top, and she swayed between shots, continually changing her balance and getting ready for the next ball to come her way. But the tennis we played mostly didn’t live up to that. I wanted it to be better, and I wanted to stop and to talk to her. With each minute I had a feeling of time running out, of time that could have been better spent.
    We played for an hour and a half, until it started to get dark and the sound of cicadas came in from the trees on all sides.
    â€˜We’ll get some drinks,’ Katharine said, looking at Erica. Erica shrugged and it seemed to mean yes.
    Andy flicked a ball up from the ground and drove it chest high into the fence. ‘How do you reckon the open-for-inspection went?’ he said, before walking over to pick the ball up and hit it again.
    â€˜Hard to tell from here.’ I wanted him to go, to leave with the twins. ‘I’m sure Monica and I can roll up the net and pick the balls up if you want to get home and find out.’
    So Monica and I stood there as the other three left the court. Andy ran past the twins, swishing his racquet and shouting, ‘Thanks, that was fun,’ and the twins walked off and the gate clanged shut behind them. Up in the Hartnetts’ house, a light went on.
    Monica turned and looked at me. She was swinging her