Chile and Shame.
I noticed the three of them staring at me first. As I raised the cider to my face, I tilted the blood red swill a little bit in their direction. My eyes shifted from the bottom of the glass back to the three guys still looking at me. “What the holy fuck is their problem?” I thought.
I lowered my glass and saw that I had a new friend on my left. She was Asian; A “bro tank top” hung off her like skin from bones. Underneath it she had some artsy fucking T-shirt I’m confident she’d under play to pretense me. “It’s just my friends side project” she’d chirp. Jet black hair hugged her body. Other girls hate her for her waist.
I’d been caught. She looked at me. Her mouth was pulled tight in the tiniest smirk—as if it might explode into a chesire grin any moment. “What’s up?” She asked me.
“Drinking alone on a Monday night. Checkmate.” I answered.
The cat made it’s way onto her face. “No judgement here.”
“Are those your friends over there?” I said, looking into her. I could feel their eyes burning my back.
“No, they’re just playing pool with me.”
“So… you’re drinking alone on a Monday night as well?”
“Checkmate.” She said.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” I asked.
“I’m occupied.” She retorted.
“Like Wall Street? What the fuck does that mean?”
“I have a boyfriend. He’s in Chile.” She drug out the “I” and breathed on the “E” a little bit. It was intoxicating.
“Interesting.” I told her, even though it wasn’t. I wasn’t interested anything but hearing her breath on that “E” again.
“Want to play pool with me?” She asked, coy. My heart fluttered.
I did. Desparately.
“Would your boyfriend in Guatemala mind?”
“He’s in Chile.” She corrected me, saying it again. I was madly in love with a girl who has a boyfriend. It occurred to me that this is probably how people end up naked, tied to a post, with a burning tire around their neck.
The clink of the quarters hitting the table gave me a shiver. The three gawkers from before asked if my name was on the chalk board perched on the wall behind the table. I closed one eye to better see some names scrawled on the board.
“I never heard of a chalk board. All the etiquette classes I’ve taken said use the small fork first and pop your quarters on the table to get the next game.” I racked up the balls.
I don’t know anything about pool other than the black one goes in last, and you pick stripes or solid in a very definitive way after you break. My new love walked over and started reconfiguring the placement of the balls much to my embarassment. She winked at me.
She started breaking the table, and my heart, immediately sinking two stripes. She smiled at me. It looked like she might have done this before. She sauntered around, sinking stripes like they owed her money. I danced around the table with her, trying to make small talk until finally she missed.
Leaning over the table, I considered maybe my stick needs more chalk. I decide to not hold up play in order to get more chalk, I’m not even sure what the chalk is for anyway. I hit the cue ball and watch as it sails across the table, hits a ball, and sails right back towards me and into a corner pocket. It was the most picturesque scratch I’d ever seen.
“That’s a tough break.” she said.
“Is that pool humor?” I was disgusted with her,and myself.
She walked towards the table, eyeing the eight ball. As she’s working the pool cue through her hands, she turns and looks at me. The smirk was back.
“You know what? This really isn’t a right handed shot.” She switches fucking hands, and sinks the eight ball.
“Game.” She says.
“Wow. You’re really good. Is this how every one plays in Guatemala?”
“Chile.” She answered, but it was different this time. I didn’t love her anymore.
