Forced Error

Tennis skirt, she thinks, and slides out the dresser drawer. She pulls it on, finds athletic socks and running shoes. She doesn’t have real tennis shoes, doesn’t think she’s good enough to warrant the expense. The tennis skirt, on the other hand, is for functionality, she tells herself, because you need a place to tuck tennis balls. And it makes her legs look long and toned. He likes that.

The two of them hop on their bicycles, tennis rackets slung over their shoulders, and head south on Pine Street. On the way, she tries for conversation.

What a lovely day, she says.

Perfect, comes the reply.

How is the project going at work? she tries again.

The same.

She gives up and looks around at the bright green early-June trees, the cloudless azure sky. Feels like California, she thinks. She ducks her head to ride under a low oak branch.

They turn right on 17th Street. The front courts are occupied so they ride around to the back, pull the gate shut behind their bikes, drop their helmets on the ground, unzip their racket covers, uncap canisters of tennis balls. She tucks two tennis balls up the left side of her skirt and tries not to think about how ridiculous that looks. After all, that’s the reason for the skirt, she reminds herself. It’s functional.

They walk to the center of the baseline on opposite sides of the court. She bounces her third ball, dribbles it with her racket. Her racket misses the ball, her foot kicks it, and the ball bounces slowly away from her. She runs after it, sheepish, and picks it up. But he is not watching her; he has just served. Holding the disobedient ball in her hand, she watches his serve sail past on the far side of the court.

I wasn’t ready, she says, unhappy to have to state the obvious.

Sorry, he shrugs.

She bounces the ball one more time, as if to tell it that she is in charge, she decides where it will go and when. She swings as the ball rebounds. Too high, she already knows. Angle the racket face down, she reminds herself.

On the other side of the court, he watches the ball curve into the air and slowly drop onto the court. In a couple of efficient steps, he is next to it, racket drawn back, and then he delivers a powerful smash. She cannot get there, she is not good enough, she knows, and he knows too.

He serves again, this time gently, with a ball that curves up too high, almost as high as hers did. She runs backward anyway, because she really wants to play tennis, really believes that if she practices she can get better, that if they can play tennis together they can love each other. That’s why she took so many lessons when they were on vacation in California, though she would have preferred hiking and wine tasting. It’s why she won’t give up, even though she doesn’t discern much improvement.

His lob makes her think that he might be getting worse, until he starts slicing. Then she remembers that he really is quite an excellent player, and it occurs to her that when he plays badly he might be mocking her. He might be doing it on purpose. To show her how ridiculous she looks. That she shouldn’t bother to try. That she will never be good enough to play real games, with overhand serves and scores. That they will never play mixed doubles with other suntanned couples, and she will never deserve real tennis shoes or his love.

She gets there, the ball has bounced, and she is under it and swings high and hard, and hits nothing, and feels a twinge in her neck.

Sorry, he shouts from across the court, which he never says when he pours the last of the milk into his cereal so there is none left for her coffee, or when he is more than two hours late coming home from the office...