MATCH POINT , art donaldson

V.

2006,
Flushing, NY

IT WAS LATE. Elodie Reiner stood in the en suite of her room, dragging the tip of her eyeliner against the waterline of her top lid.

She told herself she wasn't going to go. She said that it would be no good for anyone involved and that she wasn't going to leave her bedroom once she had said goodbye to her dad and closed the door. Once she took off her dress and exchanged it for pajamas.

But then she thought of him, the blonde hair, the look in his eye as she placed her half smoked cigarette between his lips before she left— the possibility of being able to see that look in his eye again if she were to go, to feel the power that his doey eyes looked at her with this submissiveness that felt foreign.

The idea that she was anything and everything to him, some sort of religious figure, some sort of god even. Not many people placed power in Elodie's hands but fuck did it feel good that someone may do.

She slips her hair into the hood of one of her many zip up country club fleece — gently patting on her cherry lipgloss as she waits a few hundred metres from the house for the taxi she calls.

She fakes her name, claiming to be Cheryl Huston to the taxi driver who tells her she looks like that girl he's seen in the magazines that his daughter reads. Elodie laughs it off with a simple

"I get that all the time".

THE SOUND OF THE LOCAL RADIO HUMS THROUGH THE ROOM.Both boys who had sprawled across separate areas both losing faith that Elodie was ever even going to show up the later the hour became.

" its broken." Art tells the brunette who hits the air conditioner for the fourth time in the last tennis minutes — Patrick's face screws up as he takes another inhale of the cigarette that sits between his lips.

" and she's not coming." he states, Patrick turning his head.

" she might." His words and relentless optimism annoying Art who rolls his eyes.

" you made it sound like we wanted to fuck her in here."

" we do want to fuck her in here." Patrick confirms, tossing another playing card to the floor

Art turns his head " ok maybe, but what was your plan?" he asks " right, say she did come over, then what? We just keep shooting our shot until she ends up making out with one of us hopefully-"

" And the other one sits in the bathroom." He grabs Patrick's foot, causing his attention to stir away from the messy floor and back to his friend.

He lifts his shoulders " sure if it came to that, what you think that's beneath you?" he asks

Art flickers his attention away " I think it's beneath her."

Patrick sits up in his chair, " what if she chooses you? you don't feel comfortable sending me away?"

Art tuts " she's not coming Patrick."

She knocked on the door, the smudged metal of the numbers '206' stared back at her as she pondered whether she had enough time to leave without them realising she was even ever there.

The sound causes a similar yet less contained panic from the two boys — who scram to dress and make their unpresentable room look otherwise.

But alas, as she turned her head to make sure nobody was around to see her. The door opened. The mop of brown hair of Patrick Zweig echoed a small smile on her lips " I knew you'd come."