match point

a burst of canned air blows the hair from my face,

the smell of plastic and yellow fuzz; the aroma fills my nose.

i pull off the metal lid, the peeling of the metal makes a satisfying sound.

the balls plop into my hand; i hand one ball to the opponent.

walking in the sun, i feel the rays penetrate through my skin,

i bounce the ball on the ground; a dull noise of strings meeting the ball.

i hit the ball over the net,

my racket feels empty in my hands.

the ball comes soaring back,

i set up for my next shot.

the ball spins into the alley,

the girl holds up her index finger indicating a small mistake.

small frustration starts to well up; i can feel the heat.

30-40. match point. i will comeback.