Love or Nothing
Posted on May 14, 2008
Filed Under fiction, writing |
I knew there was a wealth of entertainment in these tennis moments. So here’s the beginning - the first round of fictional tennis. Thanks to Ron, who has given me permission to riff on his exquisite lines about love and tennis….
Lara Shepherd bounced the ball four times on the service line before drawing the racket back behind her head and releasing the ball into the air. It rose, spinning and arching just slightly away from her. It was an imperfect toss and anyone watching, as Richard was, could see that her serve would fall short of the net. But with her service action already underway, there was nothing for Lara to do but chase the ball.
And in the momentary pause between imperfect release and rattling uncentered connection, she was busy deciding that love was too strong a word, and entirely the wrong thing to say when announcing she had nothing. Still, she said, “Love-Fifteen,” loud enough to be heard by her opponents before rocking back on her heel and hitting the ball into the net for the second time. The doubles team positioned to receive her serve, standing purposefully, one up-one back in their matching tennis ensembles on the far side of the net, was not particularly fearsome or accomplished. The duo did nothing to sway her timing or alter her resolve. It was her own preoccupation with the definition of the word Love, so flippantly tossed around here on the tennis court, day after day, that distorted her focus.
“Sorry,” she said to her partner who smiled wanly, trying to be forgiving and replied, “Take your time. Breathe deeply.” Lara quit apologizing and concentrated on being less restless and divided.
“Love –Thirty,” Lara called after the double fault, now serving from the deuce-side of the court. She still had nothing and she was still forced to call it love.
Lara adjusted her short white skirt, dragging it down around her hips and tapped her racket on the ground once before beginning the whole syncopated motion of the serve all over again. She thought, even if this love thing has grown thread bare and tattered, shouldn’t it be enough that we still have an affection for the things we share; attractive children once called cherubic but now too old at twelve and nine to be compared to angels, matching Volvo SUV’s, a new house with arched dormer windows situated in a neighborhood full of cul-de-sacs and startlingly similar colonials all lacking character but tastefully appointed, settled onto one acre tracts, surrounded by lush lawns bordered with lilacs and viburnum and rhododendron bushes.
She knew these shared affections were certainly more than nothing. But she couldn’t help but think that the effort she expended improving her athletic capability, adjusting her backhand, perfecting a top-spin lob, must underscore her certain unhappiness with the whole of things. She looked forward to her time within the cavernous hangar of the indoor tennis club, immersed in the sounds of balls leaving rackets and the emphatic shouts of out-loud scoring and the hoarse and incessant voice of coaching and encouragement because it was here that she found herself capable of broad focus, here she approached something close to suspended thought, giving in completely to the sensations of executing a proper forehand.
In this space, she had learned to quiet her mind, to suppress the dull but persistent whine of unhappiness that instantly returned once she had zipped her racket back into its black nylon cover and walked out the door into the parking lot, shoulders hunched against the wind. Usually she was just thankful for having occupied a present space, if only for an hour or two, before slipping back into a state of pressing anxiety about past and future.
Richard, sitting on the balcony, feet up on the railing, fished a turkey sandwich from a plastic baggy, the same sandwich on wheat bread that comprised the lunchtime meal he ate day after day in stolen moments between lessons. He immediately noticed Lara’s faltering concentration. The sweet way her right foot kicked out behind her when she reached toward a bad ball toss. In fact, if he was being honest with himself, he noticed everything about Lara Shepherd and he was beginning to feel slightly anxious about this preoccupation. There were other women, attractive women, with whom he flirted. It was just part of the job description, the distinct advantage of working with sweaty, scantily clad females. The constant proximity to the opposite gender made the sameness of the daily drills and stroke corrections entirely bearable. But there was something about this one woman that made him compulsive and wanton.
Startled by the obvious strength of his affection, Richard removed his feet from the balcony railing and crossed his legs to hide the swell of his excitement. He turned away from her court to collect his thoughts. He was, for the first time, thankful that his sexual arousal was no longer that of youth; his erection now a rush of blood and a stiffening but not an outward thrusting bulge that would have been obvious through his Adidas track pants.
He focused on the appointment with his accountant he had scheduled for the afternoon. He pictured his wife of thirty years in her bathrobe asleep on the couch in front of last night’s episode of Survivor, her mouth slightly open and a dribble of saliva dripping off her chin. He began the ritual of silent self-chastisement, recognizing the obvious weakness, the compulsion that drove him to position himself by the front door at just the time Lara would be leaving so he could watch her departure. He knew that it would leave him empty and wanting, but it was an exit he felt helplessly compelled to witness. He stood beside the door and kicked it open for her as she crossed the threshold.
“See you tomorrow, Richard” she called as she hurried down the steps, checking her phone for messages, searching her purse for the car keys.
“Tomorrow. See you then,” he said holding the door open with his foot a little longer than necessary just long enough to watch her turn the corner, remarking to himself just how much he loved the way she said his name.
Matt Clemens, hurrying through the lobby, heading out to Court Three to give a one o’clock lesson, spun his racket in his hand and made a chucking sound of disapproval. “Richard, Richard, Richard,” he scolded. And Richard turned on his heel quickly to hide the fact that he was blushing. He hated Matt Clemens, the timbre of his voice, high pitched and whining with disapproval. He loathed Matt Clemens in this moment for making him feel somehow obscene and predatory…
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