Love-All

Fire and Ice: post practice

Art

THWACK. "Get up!!" I laugh in Patrick's face, as I slam my pillow into his face. He's still half asleep on the first impact still so I get him a second time. On my third attempt at assaulting him, he swiftly dodges it coming down, and in one motion, yanks the pillow from me and swings it at my body, then my face.

"OWWWWW," I complained.

"That's what you get for being a bitch," he laughs.

"C'mon Patrick, let's go."

Patrick and I have been getting into the habit of playing tennis on early Sunday mornings until we're wet with sweat, going back to the dining hall to grub (or sometimes biking out of school to get food), and then doing our homework with each other before finishing the day off with something fun, like seeing a movie. We've finally crafted a perfect day before getting jumping into the week, and we both look forward to it. The getting up early part of it– more me than him, for sure.

Racing him to the bathroom, we wash our faces and brush our teeth side by side. Which, to be honest, I've always enjoyed. I guess one good thing that came out of going to boarding school was living with my best friend. We always have company, and we count on each other. Secretly, there's something else I enjoy too during this routine. Patrick's tan under his shirt, and the strip of hair under his belly button that disappears into his shorts. I started to appreciate his body more after he taught me something new.

Not long after getting ready, we're on the tennis court. The green paint layers on top of the red, and white lines reveal where the players are at on their half of the side.

"READY??" yells Patrick from across the court. He's dressed in a black muscle tee that covers his entire chest, but leaves his shoulders bare. His knees are revealed right under the cut of his red, Nike shorts.

"Sure," I reply, dropping my hand shielding my eyes from the sun and getting into position. It sure is hot today, I think as I smack my lips. Patrick lifts his racket and starts his weird serve that he had learned:

Bounce. Bounce. Lift, Aim. and ... Swing!

He's always so fucking extra. But I love him for it.

I quickly run to the left of the court where Patrick has lobbed the ball. It bounces once, and then back up to me.

Thwack!

I urge the ball to go back to where it came from, and it hits the ground on Patrick's side before it goes back up to him, and he swiftly swings his racket against the ball, keeping his eyes on it while it flies back to me.

Thwack!

I smile, as I see that I have enough time to launch him a difficult ball. I calculate how I can send it to his right, as close to the net as I can get, and watch him run to it.

Thwack!

The ball lands as planned, and I watch as Patrick attempts to run to catch. He isn't fast enough, and I do a little victory dance.

"Fifteen love," I tease. Patrick smiles and rolls his eyes. He pulls the tennis ball up to his hand with his racket, goes back to the end of the court, and gets into position once again.

Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Lift, aim. Swing!

The balls ricochets on both sides of our ground, respectfully, and reaches my racket.

Thwack!

I hit it back.

Thwack!

Patrick hits it back.