I wear a bandanna to absorb sweat so that it won’t get into my eyes. Many players favor headbands and wristbands for this, but I’ve never worn any kind of band on the court.
I took the third set, but she came back in the fourth.
We were approaching the fifth hour of play.
I couldn’t feel my hands. My calves burned.
My friend’s sister has great stamina and didn’t exhibit any difficulties. There is something almost superhuman about her.
I didn’t allow myself to think about sleeping with her, what that experience would be like, as we were playing. Maybe once or twice my thoughts drifted to her ample bosom or I got distracted as her skirt flared in the wind, which was kicking up and becoming more of a factor as play went on.
I started taking more time between points. I pretended to get distracted by birds and planes and people moving about in my field of vision. I’d step off the service line, pretend I didn’t like a ball toss, call for time in the middle of her serve, et cetera.
We’d decided there was to be no fifth set tiebreaker, which was probably a mistake, but one we were both eager to make.
The fifth set could only be described as epic.
Match play was suspended at 24 all on account of darkness.
By this time the crowd had dwindled. People had to go home and eat dinner, talk among themselves, live their own lives.
I could describe the various games, extraordinary points, long rallies, but most of it is a blur, to be true.
I do remember one perfect topspin lob and my friend’s sister’s running it down and hitting a perfect between-the-legs cross-court winner.
At this point we were the only two remaining at the courts, out there in the gloaming, and I dropped my racket and applauded.
We agreed to resume play tomorrow.
I’m certain after a night of rest I can prevail.
So, when I told my friend I was about to sleep with his sister, it wasn’t exactly true, but it could very well happen tomorrow.
Telling him to sit tight was good advice, though.
I was at mine own window. How you can tell it’s mine own is that’s me looking out of it.
Everything looked the same, the people and dogs and whatnot.
It had started to rain and was coming down sideways.
I didn’t know where my friend’s sister was spending the night. But I was sure she was going over the match in her mind, replaying the points, agonizing over particular decisions, when to come to net and when not to, for instance. She’d try to devise a winning strategy for tomorrow, and I was doing likewise.
No one was thinking about her brother or the stakes or the nuances of defenestration.
I couldn’t see into anyone’s window, as I’d misplaced the binoculars recently, but I’m sure everyone was huddled together at home, discussing the extraordinary feats they’d witnessed that day and what was still to come.
I considered calling my friend to tell him that everything was still to be decided, that his sister was doing him proud, that there was still hope for him, but I decided against it.
My friend’s sister is a great player and it’s a privilege to stand across the net from her.
I’m glad it’s turning out this way. That everything is still to be decided.
We are the only two playing.
THERE’S MORE THAN ONE REASON I tied you to that bedpost.
If you recall, it’d been raining. That’s first and foremost.
Also, the bathroom and how you were always in there cleaning it.
I can’t count how many times I found you hunched over the tub, your hair up in that bandanna, listening to the stereo loud and scrubbing away to the rhythm of the music.
I can’t tell you the toll this took on me.
There’s so much I can’t tell you.
I needn’t remind you that neither of us was in good health nor spirits at the time. I think I was sleeping sixteen hours a day and you were up to a quart of gin.
All of this taken together could devastate anyone, I think.
I, like you, am human. Like you, I know nothing.
The rest we can sort out later.
If there is no later, please allow me to say this: Be careful who you look at on the subway. They might want money or to kill you.
You have to question the mentality of anyone who willingly looks at another on the subway.
Someone great like Socrates would say the same thing had he lived in the city.
If you get yourself killed, I would count it as an unspeakable tragedy, even if I don’t know you anymore, even if by then you’re already dead to me.
Socrates himself was put to death on a subway, I’m almost certain.
He made the mistake of looking up when someone asked for everyone’s attention and they made him drink hemlock for his troubles.
This isn’t the kind of information you can get just anywhere.
You know what you’re giving up.
Do you remember the time I tied you to that bedpost and we discussed Socratic paradoxes and the peculiar ways of the world? I believe I was accused of something horrific and I needed you to sit still long enough to explain myself.
I believe I made myself clear while I was applying the ointment.
