A friendly game of pool.
|“Just shoot the damn ball!” The voice boomed from a nearby booth, he was drunk and loud, but could still shoot pool.|
Last shot, a kick at the eight ball.
Come on concentrate, I’ve made this shot a hundred times, high right english, hit short off the rail, no scratch.
I stand up and wipe my forehead on my sleeve, man it’s hot in here.
“Stop stalling and shoot, you know you can’t make this!”
Shut up you jackass you’ve beaten me for the last time!
I lean down, set my feet, and take aim. A few short practice strokes and…
Did I chalk up? Always chalk up before you shoot. The words sting my eardrums and I stand up one more time, take a deep breath and reach for the chalk.
“You looking for this?” The chalk rested in his palm, his grin was a bullet taking the air from my lungs.
Screw it, don’t need it anyway, this is my match to win and no shit talking bastard is going to take it from me. Enough of this!
I go through the motions, double check my angle, and get my line of sight, two practice strokes and contact. The cue rolls true and straight, bounces off the rail and clips the eight. It rocks and falls into the pocket. I stand up and look at the booth, “come on Dad, time to get out of here.”
“Lucky shot, I’ll get you next time!”
“Sure you will Dad, Sure you will.”
Word count: 252