When Noah entered the Pickleball Complex covered in Carson that rainy morning, my body said: “Wow. Look at that guy.”
The 30 minutes that took me to Carson from Mar Vista suddenly seemed to be worth it. Upon arriving at the PowerPlay Pickleball parking lot, I could see the airship of Goodyear tied and turning in the wind on the other side of the street.
My Pickleball friend, Hailey, had booked the court. He sent me a text message the previous day that had aligned to a fourth player: a Plummer Park boy in West Hollywood. She gave me nothing to continue on her relationship, not to care. My state was “married my whole life and now separated for two years.” My husband was noisy and controller. I wasn't sure I wanted to be in a relationship again.
Hollywood Hailey, with his long blond hair, shook a tennis dress, socks to the thighs and baseball cap. Sometimes he wore sunglasses inside. The men gravitated her as a mouth to a caramel apple.
She got our friend Gary to play. Gary was a lawyer whose affability never offended outside the court, but in court I found him aggressive. I met his lovely older wife at a Pickleball party last year. He and I throw our pickletball bags on a table near the court. Gary's bag was full of used towels. I asked to borrow his draft to remove the wear marks from my palette.
Noah balanced his backpack of his wide shoulders on our table. I felt his body on my knees. Bass to high, I noticed everything: the size of his shoe, the muscular calves, the temples in gray hair, the smart face. In my mind, I saw our hands tied, running on a beach, gangs flying, the appearance in our eyes on the altar, the garden of the field with pickleball roses.
“This is Noah,” said Hailey. “He plays in Plummer.”
Noah smiled at me, extended his strong hand to shake mine. A soft pillow grip. No wedding ring.
Gary didn't use a wedding ring either. My fingers were certainly naked. (There should be an ring finger to be separated. The middle finger would be a good candidate). Hailey did not wear rings.
We all go to the reserved court. He was noisy inside the palettes that hit Pickleballs and Music. Hailey knew I didn't love playing with Gary, who hunted too many shots, so let me have Noah.
“Do you want to serve first?” Noah's voice was pillow like his palms. Backed towards the baseline. He offered me the ball. I took it.
My Bobbed hair was hidden under a baseball cap that I had started using to emulate Hailey. Hailey balanced his hips from one place to another in a position ready, wearing like the volleyball player that once was. He wore leggings and a long -sleeved upper part covered by a swollen vest.
“Zero-Zero-Two,” I called to start the game. My service sailed a lot. “Ugh,” I sighed. Noah gave me a tender look. “Okay,” he said. “We have this.” He approached, extended his hand to mine. I slapped him.
Hailey then served. I returned the ball, but Gary overreach to hunt him, driving a shot in Noah's right. Noah moved away the ball. Our point. Noah smiled at me. I returned the smile.
To celebrate a winning point, the partners usually slap the pallets. But Noah continued to offer me his naked hand. Skin -to -skin contact. I tried not to read it.
We change points, hitting volley, firing rounds on the network, reacting quickly, Monday, grunts, we all gasp. The score was tied 9-9.
There is something that happens on a pickleball court when the points reach the distance. The players become smiling, euphoric, sweaty. Euphoria united us in honey. When Noah and I took the victory, we howls. We all dye palettes.
It is time for a respite, to drink some water, to say something deep to Noah to capture the moment.
“God, I'm thirsty,” it occurred to me. I looked at Noah's Bobing Adam's Apple while ascending to his bottle. The heat spread through my chest and my breathing accelerated. In my mind, I saw us in a hotel room in Greece under the white curtains of gauze.
“Can I ask you a question?” He said, placing his water.
“Yes,” I said out loud. (“I take you,” I told myself).
“Did you know that you have a backward setback in your volley?”
If my heart were an audible, his uninquented advice was a needle. My husband was an expert in everything, even in the way he cut the tomatoes, hem pants, folded socks. I had had enough of the men who provided me.
Hailey took a water drink from his bottle. His thigh tips shone. Gary offered Noah his pallets draft and then toward the upper part of his naked head.
“HMMM,” I finally said.
When the picklics are beaten too much, they break. Before they break, small cracks appear between the holes.
The score in the second game reached Game Punto for Hailey and Gary. Gary served. I returned hard and deep to Hailey. She lifted a Juicy Lob to my right. This was the first Lob to my right throughout the game, and I had something to demonstrate. Decades of breaks in the general expenses in tennis would sweeten me as I could not no apple of sweets.
“Mine,” I shouted, picked up my palette on my head and turned my right down with all my strength to hit that ball in Noah's heart. I felt a deaf noise. Noah had jumped through my body to hunt the lobe with his reverse. My row hit his back. The ball hit the network.
Finished game. Honeymoon ends.
Noah crossed his arms trying to massage his own hematoma. His expression was shy. I knew I had hunted my shot and cost us the game.
Hailey ran towards him. “Are you OK?” She asked.
Gary said: “Brutal.”
Noah said: “I can't believe I missed.”
He didn't say he felt it. I did not apologize to whip him.
Hailey said: “We have to give up the court now anyway. Great games, boys.” Hailey hit my palette, Hailey dye of Noah. Gary clinated mine, Gary clinated Noah's. I did not tintin from Noah's.
I gathered my things, I made sure to fill my water, my palette, my cap back in my bag. I grabbed my car's keys.
“Noah and I headed for lunch. Do you want to join us?” Hailey said. It sounded like a plan made before getting there. Had something happened between them after all?
Gary said he couldn't go.
I said I couldn't go.
Noah extended his hand for a goodbye for farewell, without the idea of the heights and the depths of our relationship. I slapped him.
This author is an enthusiastic of the Pickleball and Sea Dreamy.
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