He was part of the huddle, heads bowed, low murmurs, sweaty backs, ball arced in the air, arms extended, point scored, smacked asses, and jubilation! The girl watching can never hope for it.
His mother pours for her, tea in china cups lifted to soft lips, subtext of complicity in their breathy casualness, their pact in their palms balancing the saucers. The boy watching knows he's lost.
Beverly A. Jackson lives, writes and paints in , N.C., blogs at www.beverlyajackson.com.