She used to love the game of tennis, with
peach-fuzz ball, supple and vibrant. It used to be
exciting, to see the ball
bouncing happily over the net, meeting
racquet, and bouncing back again.
She served her best and sometimes
missed, but always tried
to impress her partner, who did not care. He just
kept hitting the ball, crashing it on
the concrete floor.
Once more his racquet fingers clenched in anger,
swiftly swung, and connected. The ball is flattened against the unyielding floor, weakened, but rebounding yet again, springing back to meet
the racquet.
The last strike was harder than before, smashing
the ball with exploding force. The battered shpere fell still on the concrete floor, life escaping through the split. He shook the pain from his racquet fist and
left for another ball.
