She never missed a shot. Or rarely ever missed. When practicing difficult angles, at times the ball wouldn’t go where she wanted it to. When practicing against an opponent, she never missed.
I’m not sure why I went into the billiards hall…or pool hall. I’m not an expert on the terminology despite having spent the better part of two months watching her practice and play…or shoot pool.
Not liking the company of people but needing to not be alone but not wanting to be in a crowded bar, I stumbled upon the pool room that sat on the second floor of a small bar two blocks off main street.
Out of the fifteen tables, usually one or two remained empty. Dim yellow light illuminated the pool tables, leaving the walls and side tables and barstools in the shadows.
I grabbed a drink and sat at the far end where I could observe the room. While most tables were surrounded by guys and gals drinking and laughing at each other’s stories and poor shots, one table near the outside wall had a single person shooting on it. A woman, perhaps in her late twenties, maybe early thirties – I’m not that good at guessing women’s ages. Who is, really? – moved quickly from ball to ball, the white one – the cue – cracking against the striped and colored ones…or solids, I guess…until only the cue remained.
Once all were gone, she racked the balls and did it again. Smooth. Precise. Laser-focused. Though I knew very little of pool, I could immediately recognize her prowess about the table.
Every so often, a guy would come over and slap some cash on the edge of the table. Without a word, she’d nod, match his stake, then clean up. She’d take her money back but never took the other guy’s. And she never turned anyone down. The regulars all seemed to know the deal. They knew they’d get beat. They remained hopeful anyway.
I didn’t care to watch her beat the men. I came night after night to simply watch her practice. I’ve never been good at anything in my life – though I tried my hand at many things – and I’m not particularly good at writing, though I’m supposed to be on account of my job. Watching her, I guessed a lot of my inadequacy was due to my lack of dedication to whatever craft I tried my hand at. Perhaps that was due to never finding anything I was passionate about. Either way, watching her passion and drive to be great fascinated and drew me back week after week.
That first night, I didn’t really notice her physique, too focused on her game. The dim light didn’t help to highlight any of her features. Her thin lithe frame didn’t sport curves that could be highlighted. Pale skin seemed whiter against the deep black of her hair always pulled back in a pony.
None of the guys she played ever ogled her or checked out her ass as she bent over the table. I think most would consider her rather plain. I don’t know much about women and their makeup, but it seemed she wore none. Or very little. Maybe just a little bit of liner around the eyes. Every shirt she wore was sleeveless. Most modest. A few shirts had a v-cut that fell low as she bent over the stick also called a cue – why the stick and ball are both the cue confuses the hell out of me.
She wasn’t particularly well-endowed in the chest, just enough so that her breasts jiggled slightly as she fired the cue at…the cue. Again, that first night I noticed none of this. She grew more beautiful each time I sat and watched her shoot. After a month of seeing her play, every feature of hers attracted me, including her drive to prepare for what I expected was the professional pool circuit.
I tried not to sit too close to be noticeable. After a while, though, even the bartender and server recognized me. Not enough to be friends or anything. Just enough to nod and give me a half smile when I entered, ordered and sat down. They seemed to know why I was there. They must have thought it odd. But since the girl I observed hadn’t complained – at least I don’t think she did – none cared.
The staff also sensed I didn’t wish to talk either. They were good that way. Those that craved chit chat and small talk got it. Those that didn’t received a small nod.
After she missed during a practice, she grimaced slightly before setting up the same shot and making it the second time. And by making it, she cracked the ball into the pocket, drawing the cue to a spot on the table. Both times the ball had gone in. The second time, the cue went where she wanted it to. The control she demonstrated over that white ball amazed me more than any other aspect of her game. It was something I’d never thought about before. Put the ball in the pocket. I thought that was all there was to pool.
She hit the same shot a few more times before dropping the stick on the table and heading my way. That’s when we spoke to each other for the first time.
She slid onto the stool opposite me and studied my face, no doubt waiting for me to say something stupid like wow, you’re awesome, or you’re as beautiful as the way you play pool. I knew if I opened my mouth first, I’d blurt out something boneheaded.
“Why?” she said. That was it. And her question required no explanation. I knew enough from being a human on this planet for three and a half decades that her expression and tone demanded a serious answer, not some half-ass humor that I tended to use as a defense mechanism or when I lacked clever things to say.
So I answered truthfully, or as truthfully as I thought. “I guess I just love watching greatness.”
She studied my face as if studying the layout of the balls on the table, checking out each feature, trying to see if I was being a smartass or sarcastic. She didn’t seem bothered by me watching her…or creeped out. I was worried about that. Just genuinely curious. Saying nothing more, she left to get a glass of water from the bar.
Whether from knowing someone watched or whether she simply improved, after that night I never witnessed her miss again. Ever.
Before our brief conversation, I didn’t think much about her during the day. Going to the pool hall to watch her shoot had become part of my routine.
After speaking with her, I began thinking of her quite a bit. I ran through all kinds of conversations I’d have with her; I ran through scenarios of her and I traveling to all kinds of professional competitions, me the supportive man smiling in the background. I began imagining us being together, though not in the way you might expect. Just being…as in being…I can’t explain it. Keeping each other from being alone…I guess that might be the best way to sum it up. And all from one silly conversation where she questioned why some random guy seemed obsessed with some random girl.
But she wasn’t some random girl. She was truly amazing. Inspiring. I longed for something that I’d be passionate about. For a short time I was; I was passionate about being near her.
Several weeks later, after thrashing some new guy who didn’t know what she was all about, she plopped onto the stool at my table, slouching against the back rest as she stared at me again. This time, her expression was softer, her eyes less harsh as she stared into mine.
“Why?” she said. Of all the scenarios and conversations that I’d been playing in my head, I never imagined she’d ask the same question again.
I answered stupidly. I think. Maybe it was the right thing to say. “Because I have to.” I shrugged. “I need to.”
I took a swig of beer to ease the awkwardness. As the cool liquid ran down my throat, I realized I’d spoken the truth. The real truth from deep down inside. She must have seen it.
She left the table, and I looked away, not wanting to face her after my silly confession.
I drained the bottle. As I lowered it, I saw her standing by the table, adjusting the collar of the jacket she’d just put on.
I was about to apologize for my stupid response, but she spoke, asking if I was paid up. I nodded. She nodded back and stood there, adjusting her coat, waiting for something.
Using her chin to point at my jacket hanging off the back of my barstool, she asked if it was mine.
I nodded and began putting it on. She took a step toward the door, then stopped and turned back. I’m often thick when it comes to reading women or knowing what they want. I know they often hint at things. I usually get it wrong. This hint I got. She waited as I put my coat on. Without speaking to each other, we left the pool hall together.
Once outside, she looked toward me and then up and down the street, waiting for me to lead somewhere. She expected me to know what her intentions were. Maybe she wanted to get something to eat. Perhaps she wanted to get a drink at another bar. Or maybe she wanted to get out of the pool hall to just talk. Talking wasn’t happening. She didn’t seem hungry and seemed like the kind of woman who knew what she wanted to eat and what she was hungry for. I wouldn’t be expected to know that.
I finally got it –I thought I did, anyway – and told her my apartment was five blocks away and that we could walk there. I guessed right. She nodded and walked beside me as we made our way toward my place.
At one point, she grabbed my hand to stop me as she adjusted her shoe. It seemed for both of us, words were just too difficult to use at times, at least to use to communicate our inner wants. Too many things get mis-said. Actions can sometimes be misinterpreted, but we both seemed to communicate better through actions. I hadn’t needed to say anything to her for the two months I’d been watching her for her to know what she needed to know about me. I think she’d asked me why those two times just to see if my words matched my actions.
And for her, once her shoe had been adjusted, she kept hold of my hand the rest of the way to my apartment. It was strange and amazing at the same time.
I never expected to be walking back to my place with her. I was never planning to ask her out. Not for lack of courage. I didn’t want to ruin the good thing we had going at the pool hall. And if she said no, I’d feel weird coming back night after night to lose myself in watching her play the game she loved.
When she kept hold of my hand, I knew. We both understood. It was surreal.
I think I may have offered her a drink once we reached my place. She didn’t want anything. We sat together on my couch watching late night television, my arm around her, her head on my chest, legs curled up beside her.
Then somehow we knew. We kissed and found our way to my bed. I’ve never been in love with a girl. I thought I had been. I’ve been infatuated plenty of times. I didn’t know I’d wanted her intimately until she held my hand. Probably more accurate, I hadn’t wanted to admit it.
I don’t sleep around, so I’m not a good judge on whether I was good or not. I just know I felt something with her I’d never felt before.
Afterward, she hopped in the shower. Once finished, she wrapped a white towel about her torso as I showered. I thought she might be gone when I got out. I feared it. She lay on her side in my bed on the sheets, the blankets pushed down to the foot of the bed, her long black hair dampening the pillow.
On a whim, I crawled naked into the bed behind her, her back to my belly and pulled the sheet over us. She pulled my arm under her neck and shuffled back further into my embrace. I never know what to do with the other arm. I rested my hand on the towel on her waist. She grabbed it and clutched it to her bosom. We lay this way for hours. I think at one point we both fell asleep.
She asked if my arm was ok. I told her it was even though I couldn’t feel it.
Through her shifting and moving, the bottom part of her towel had shifted up, exposing the skin of her bottom, which she kept firmly pressed into my lap. This beautiful and amazing woman in my bed and in my arms, baring herself to me, with the soft and smooth skin of her buttocks rubbing against me, caused me inevitably to react.
Her voice just over a whisper and in the manner of someone asking if I needed a refill on my beer, she asked if I wanted to go again. I assured her it wasn’t necessary, that I was reacting to the thought of her in my arms, that I was content.
She asked again if I needed her to take care of it. I squeezed her tighter, reassuring her that I was ok.
She turned her head, trying to look at me and said, “I kind of feel like I should, though.”
Another example of how bad we both were at using words to express ourselves. Our actions were speaking. I pulled her face toward mine and kissed her. And she took care of me. I hope I took care of her too. I believe I did. I don’t know why she would lie about that.
Once cleaned up again, she dressed in one of my t-shirts and cuddled facing me, arms pressed against her chest.
The following morning she showered and dressed in one of my shirts, pulling on a pair of my sweats over her bare legs and butt. I made her breakfast, walked her downstairs and helped her to a cab. We kissed before she left. She smiled – a small smile that held a mountain of meaning – and waved good bye.
That was the last time I saw her. Though not because I didn’t try.
Returning to my apartment, I gathered her clothes from the night before, including her undergarments, laundered them, folded them, and placed them neatly in one of my drawers since I didn’t know where else to put them. If she ever came back over, she’d have a clean pair of clothes to change into.
The strange thing about our relationship so far is that she had never introduced herself to me, nor I to her. I didn’t know her name. I didn’t have her phone number. I never saw her with a phone.
The only way I knew how to contact her was at the pool hall. Neither of us went there over the weekends, so Monday evening after work, I showed up. I figured things might be awkward. All day Saturday and Sunday I kept thinking about her and second guessing the connection we shared. Maybe I’d read too much into things. Perhaps it had been just a sexual encounter. A one-night stand. It hadn’t felt that way. I’d been wrong before.
I decided to power through the awkwardness and see her Monday at the pool hall. She didn’t show.
Nor did she show the following night. Or the next. Or for the next two weeks. I showed up on the weekend, just to see if she’d changed her schedule. I hoped, however, that she wasn’t there Saturday. If she was, it meant she had changed up her routine because she didn’t want to see me. She didn’t show up either day.
I took a couple days off from going there the third week, feeling odd walking into the pool hall, standing looking around for someone who obviously didn’t want to see me, enduring the odd stares by the bartender.
I couldn’t keep focused at work not knowing why. I wanted to ask her that. And that’s all I’d ask. Why?
Midweek, I arrived. Again she was a no-show. This time I approached the bartender and as casually as possible asked if he’d seen the woman who used to play pool by herself all the time. If she didn’t want to see me, then she had probably told the bartender not to tell me anything. I simply couldn’t fathom how I’d misinterpreted our night together.
He fumbled over his words, looking uncomfortable, and told me that Cass the waitress knew her better and might know something, and she was due any minute.
I asked some casual questions, trying to make casual conversation, commenting on how good the woman was at pool. When I asked if she was training to go pro, his answer surprised me. She already had been on the pro circuit and had been highly ranked. In response to me asking what happened, he said something about her being in love with some guy she met in Vegas who broke her heart. She quit and moved back here. He looked like he wanted to say more but told me the waitress Cass knew her better.
I nodded. The bartender set a beer down in front of me, even though I didn’t order one. When I looked at him, he said it was on the house.
The waitress rushed in, apologizing for being late. The bartender called to her and asked about the girl who shot pool.
“Katrin?” said Cass. I nodded, and said the name in my head a few times. Katrin. Katrin. The name fit. Of course it was Katrin. Cass’s next words nearly sent me to the ground. “Katrin died a few weeks ago.”
Something on my face told them both I was not reacting to this news as if I were a casual observer of pool.
Cass asked if I knew her. I tried to answer. I couldn’t. Partly due to shock. Partly due to not knowing the answer. I didn’t know her. Not really. I hadn’t even known her name. Katrin. A beautiful name. A perfect name for a perfect stranger.
Cass told me what happened. I caught bits and pieces. Katrin had died in a car wreck on the way to the airport. Her roommate had first called Cass Friday, telling her Katrin hadn’t come home. Cass said Katrin had left with some guy but didn’t know who.
When Cass called the roommate the next day to see if Katrin had shown up, she said she had and that Katrin was talking crazy, saying she was in love and wanted to get back on the pro circuit. The roommate couldn’t reason with her, nor could she even get the name of the guy. Katrin hadn’t ever said anything about a guy but said they’d been seeing each other for weeks now. The roommate was worried but couldn’t stop her and had asked Cass if she’d seen Katrin hanging out here with anyone. Cass said she hadn’t.
Katrin had booked a flight, and Monday morning hopped a cab to the airport. Someone in a large truck hit her head on, killing her and the cab driver.
Cass stopped talking loud enough to see my face that had clearly drained of color.
“I’m the guy Katrin was seeing,” I said, somehow getting the words out. It was one of those strange moments. I was overjoyed, ecstatic to learn Katrin had been in love with me. My anxiety about the sincerity of our feelings toward each other melted away only to be replaced with incredible sorrow and loss.
I tried to leave but took two steps before my knees grew weak, forcing me onto the stool. I cried. Cass tried to comfort me by throwing an arm around my shoulders, saying how she had no idea I cared for Katrin so much.
The rest of the week passed in a fog. I may have got some work done. I didn’t get fired.
The following week I returned to the pool hall even though I didn’t want to see the sympathetic faces of the bartender or Cass. They knew their business, letting me do my own thing without asking me unanswerable questions, like how am I doing.
Every time a pool ball cracked against another one, I turned my head toward it. I don’t know why I tortured myself by going there. Normalcy. Routine. Healing. It wouldn’t be that hard to avoid pool halls for the rest of my life.
The third night back, Cass asked if I would be there the following night. Katrin’s roommate wanted to meet me. I wasn’t sure I wanted to meet her. Cass assured me it was just to meet the guy Katrin had fallen in love with…not to grill him or anything.
That night, I wrote down everything that had happened between Katrin and me. Everything before this paragraph and the one prior was on the papers I gave to Katrin’s roommate. I included the parts about us making love. I wanted to show that we loved each other. Maybe her family would know that I loved her and not blame me for pushing Katrin to go pro again. I hadn’t known she was trying. Looking back on it all, I was happy that she had decided to try again. I don’t know really what part I had to play in all of that. Maybe she needed to feel loved again, valued, needed. Or just reinvigorated. I don’t know.
After her roommate read what I’d written, she began talking about Katrin and her family, where she was from and what she was like and all of that. I listened as best I could, but honestly, I didn’t care. I didn’t want to hear. The side Katrin showed to me was one she hadn’t revealed to anyone else. The quiet, soft side of someone dealing with life and pain in her own way. Katrin hadn’t shared that with her roommate, or if she had, didn’t get the response she needed.
Katrin’s roommate said she’d give my account to Katrin’s parents, even though she said the sexual parts might be too much for them. I shrugged. “It’s all part of who she was. I was attracted to every bit of her.”
I stood to leave but she stopped me, asking if I wanted to see Katrin’s place.
And me being too stupid to understand women’s words said yes, even though I didn’t want to. She talked the entire way. I kept thinking of the beautiful silence Katrin and I had shared. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve no problem listening to a woman tell me about her day. But I’m also ok with one who is fine with being silent, not needing to fill the void with idle prattle.
Katrin’s room was about how I’d expect it. Simple. A bit messy. I don’t know why I thought she’d be a bit untidy. I guess I imagined she would have more important things on her mind than making sure every piece of clothing and decoration or appliance was in its place. Her trophies sat in a box in the corner. The bed unmade. Phone charger lay on the floor by an outlet. A few pairs of shoes scattered to the side. She’d also recently packed.
Standing in her room did nothing for me emotionally. It was her room. That was certain. Even though it had some cozy pillows and blankets, it seemed cold.
“This isn’t how I knew her,” I said aloud.
The roommate nodded and explained that Katrin’s parents hadn’t set foot in this room. Her dad had her body shipped back to her hometown and didn’t care what happened with the rest of Katrin’s stuff. The roommate didn’t know what to do with it and asked if I wanted any of it. I didn’t.
The roommate plopped onto the bed. A few moments of silence followed, and I turned to leave. She began crying, though softly. I wasn’t in the mood to comfort someone else.
I keep referring to her as Katrin’s roommate because I don’t remember her name. She stood and walked over to me, placing her head against my chest, wanting me to hug her. I’m not a total ass all the time, so I did. I read her body language loud and clear but was in no state to tell her no.
I succumbed to her will. Her touch and shaking body had weakened me, as had Katrin’s loss. I hadn’t wanted to cry around the roommate. I did. And before we knew what was going on, we’d moved to her room and found comfort with each other in her bed.
It was the most empty I’d ever felt in my life. Though Katrin was dead, I felt guilty, like I’d betrayed something special that only she and I shared.
As I dressed, her roommate wrote her number on a piece of paper and gave it to me, telling me that if I ever needed anything to call her. I promised her I would and told her we should get together for a drink sometime. I lied. I never wanted to see her again.
I never went back to that pool hall or any other one. I still keep Katrin’s clothes folded and in my top drawer. Every so often, when I see the neat stack I smile. I smile at the memory of us, but mostly at the memory of her pursuing her dream. She died in pursuit of it, though not in the dramatic way someone dies while trying to conquer Everest.
I suppose I could blame myself. I don’t. She’d been delaying living life by pouring herself night after night into that pool table. And I’d been in the same place, dying a little every day as I poured into a job I hated. We’d been sustaining each other.
It saddens me that she’s gone. But on the pile of regrets, at the top is the one that perhaps stings the most. After we’d spoken that first time and I began fantasizing about our life together, my dream had been to watch her live out her dream. That was all I had to look forward to. Now, I don’t even have that.
End
[From the author: I'd love to get your reaction to this story. Drop me a line below. Thanks!]
So well written that the reader is immersed in the character, understanding his emotions and thought processes making the story flow to a suspenseful though tragic ending.
Looking forward to your next book. Karen D. Nichols
For a man who, in this story, "doesn't write well," you could have fooled me. The way this story is masterfully written, one would think that it was a true. Reading it pulled me in like few stories do. So I have to give kudos to your writing ability. Only one typo was a first.
While I never hung out in pool halls, I've played a few games of eight ball in bars either for fun or for a beer. I would always ask for a soft drink or nothing if I won because I never drank beer. There is something watching a woman play pool. For me, it's also about form and whether or not she has a body worth watching when she plays.
Thank you for reminding about women's subtle cues. You reminded me of the night I had a few graduating students with their MBAs over for a dinner party. When they all left except one, I was quite tired and simply told her, "I'm going to bed." She followed and then stayed for a couple of months. Frankly, I couldn't get into her like she was into me. Just had to be honest. She said she had a job lined up with Salomon Brothers in NYC. I might be rich by now if I had married her and gone along for the ride.
A book-length psychodynamic study of pathological narcissism, relationships
with abusive narcissists, and the Narcissistic Personality Disorder, using a new vocabulary.
Dozens of Frequently Asked Questions regarding Pathological Narcissism, relationships with abusive narcissists, and the Narcissistic Personality Disorder.
“Being a couple yet free is our next challenge on the evolutionary ladder. This book successfully helps us unravel the myths that block that achievement. It does it with warmth, with readability, and with balance. It recreates everyday problems and
She never missed a shot. Or rarely ever missed. When practicing difficult angles, at times the ball wouldn’t go where she wanted it to. When practicing against an opponent, she never missed.
