fwriction

“He took up a spot on the last court, farthest from the lights. In the darkness, though, he could make out the white lines, the taut net, the side-by-side benches. Mary always insisted on her own bench. We smell too bad to share, she’d said with a laugh. Hank slipped off his shoes and moved to the service line. The manicured grass comforted his tired feet. Like a cloud, he thought. In his right hand, Hank gripped his racquet, and with his left, he bounced a ball. He could almost touch the smooth, felt nap. His toss was high, a motion that hadn’t changed since his teenage years, and he swung hard. Imagining Mary’s return, he shuffled to his right, hitting a forehand up the line. Mary would track the shot for sure, though, and return a backhand crosscourt. Hank hit a short ball back, hoping to draw Mary to the net. She rushed forward, slicing a drop shot just over the net. Raising his racquet, Hank clapped. Mary bowed and smiled, enjoying the attention. In the empty night, he could hear her critique his serve, that it was too windy for such a high toss, that he knew she would come to the net eventually, her voice as real as it had been all those years ago. She had always been there to return his shots, to keep the rally going. As he left the court, he imagined their back-and-forth, their epic battles, continued on without them, emerging like dew every morning and evaporating, at night, into the lights of Center Court.”