In a whirling dance we trade motion, our bodies flying like a conductor's baton--back and forth, up and down. Panting and sweating, fixated on each other from across the court, we lose ourselves in the playful, lunging rhythm…
Suddenly the ball is in my court. Time stops. Now I'm watching the game from the sidelines. It's ludicrous, empty. Now again, I see it from above. It's disastrous, horrifying. And now I'm back on the court, staring at the ball as it sails softly toward me.
“What do you want?”
The ball is in my court.
I seize it midair and bring it in close. I could swear it looks golden--a lump of pure, refined gold. I could swear it looks like my favorite food. I could swear it shimmers like the little swishing waves of vodka that numb my lips and my lonely heart. I force myself to remember how it all looked from the sidelines, from above...and I crush it in my hand. The shards pierce skin and bone and I drop them, discard them at my feet, where they glitter nastily with redeeming blood. And I turn away from the court, away from you, and start walking. It matters not whither. I will not look back.
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From @ribbonwriggles