Tennis Time ! – C. Hightower

September 21, 2026

Today I made a decision. I won’t avoid the creature, the night watchman reclining in the street, watching the fresh-faced girls in sports suits, the men in checks and plaids. My racket bag knocked against my hip, and somewhere past him a ball was struck on clay, that clean double note. I’m having a good day no matter what.

He spoke, but his voice was not a voice; it was a sibilant whistle under the tongue. He pushed himself against one of those skirt-suited Dianas.

“Not bad for a beginner.”

Colorless ones, others like him near to all of us, unnoticed. He shifted into a broad motif. Crystal shrimp. Flat bright eyes. How raw he looks. He’s a poet. “No more,” he said, “that was my pre-war days.”

I bowed, for I was being announced and introduced to the polyp.

He said, “Let’s leave the coarse sun, balcony to balcony.”