Our eyes met across the crowded greens of a pool table. Three stripes sunk by my pony-tailed opponent, and me still looking to break the jinx. Luckless now, and fuckless for three months: not an enthusiastic medley for a rookie. But I consoled myself, as is my wont in times of social distress; after all, she was staring at me, not the lance-wielding asshole black-holing balls at will.
She was a bolt from the blue, soft angularity slipping easily outside the shape of the pedestrian day, nearly six feet tall without her two-inch props, black hair streaked blonde down the middle and sides: a vision with a cocktail. Her gleaming body, tan waxwork, rested against the wood burnish of an adjoining pool table, every inch of her sinuousness draped in the shaky amber glow thrown by cheap bulbs. My adversary shot her venomous glances just as easily as he potholed-banded balls. I thought I was imagining it at the time; why should this strutting king of the pools feel even vaguely abrasive towards a pretty woman in an appreciative audience.
