by Lisa Gregoire
“Twelve in the corner.” Lucy gestures with her cue.
“Uh-huh,” Henry nods. They just met.
She takes a wide berth around the pool table to claim territory. Henry steps back. Lucy bends and stretches to reach the cue ball. Even now, she still feels self-conscious standing on tip toes, ass in the air, midriff hanging slack like a bag of sand, the neck of her blouse opening to reveal her empty bra.
Folding over pool tables makes men feel like snipers and women feel like cats in heat— one deadly, one sexy, both ready. A certain woman could linger prone on the table like that to distract male opponents, but Lucy’s not that woman. In school, she got boys’ attention by pinching them and punching their shoulders, pretending to like their shitty music.
She stops to consider the angle on the twelve ball, but […]