A crack and the bat cleanly strikes the ball into a hard line drive across the yard. She watches impassively as it speeds past her shoulder to land somewhere far out of sight.
“Well, that’s that.” Her tone is light. “Last ball, rather a shame, I did enjoy this time with you.”
He has the gift of expressing emotion without needing to change a single muscle on his face. Eyes still cloaked in shadow by his cap, he swivels his head sideways with rather pointed intent towards the small hoard of baseballs that had suddenly appeared in a corner. …She senses disapproval. Really, she couldn’t say why; thirty seconds playing this game was plenty enough experience for a lifetime.
A brief sigh is followed by a grudging retrieval performed in the space between seconds. If she must play, she at least retains some semblance of dignity; running about chasing after balls fell to the domain of the bumbling schoolgirl. On her return, he is trotting towards her with bat and hand outstretched. The meaning is clear, if the reasoning is murky.
“Oh. No. No, I think you’d better hold on to that.” She finds herself grasping hold of the thick end as he presses it against her hand. “I much prefer to use this kind of thing as a bludgeon.” Her other hand is guided down to the handle. “Or perhaps a javelin; it could use a bit of sharpening on this end.” She moves to hold it like she does her poker before becoming aware of another perfectly expressionless stare. His expression of displeasure was really very harsh.
First ball. She holds it sideways as if she knew what the term ‘bunt’ meant, but really, she is attempting to figure out where her left hand is supposed to go. The ball hits the side of the house and leaves a sizeable mark.
Fourth ball. She holds it like a parasol and swings it as she would if she were a young woman holding an umbrella being relieved of her purse. The imaginary thief suffers a first-rate concussion and doesn’t get up again; neither does the ball, which is smacked straight into the ground.
Fifteenth ball. She does not hold it, and instead, begins ascribing to the theory that blind chance is better than no chance at all. Given all the physics and mechanics involved and given that she blissfully knows none of them, it seems possible that throwing the bat at the ball will result in a greater than 0% chance of the ball moving forward more than a foot. Unfortunately, her aim is really only any good with people named after temporal landmarks, round about 3 o’clock in the afternoon. Both bat and ball hit the side of the house and leaves a sizeable mark.
Twenty-second ball. There is no twenty-second ball.
She coughs a little to herself and sets the ball against the side of the house. “Well! That’s that, then. Let’s do this again sometime, perhaps after I retire.” She is twenty two years old. She turns to leave and walks straight into him and the object held in his hand. The twenty-second ball. …There are pen marks on it. It resembles a face. Glasses, round cheeks, a smug, repugnant smile, and a mop of oily blonde hair.
Twenty-second ball.
They never do find it, despite the reports of broken windows and felled tree branches they hear the next day from the other side of town.
Slugger/Susan | Baseball
“Well, that’s that.” Her tone is light. “Last ball, rather a shame, I did enjoy this time with you.”
He has the gift of expressing emotion without needing to change a single muscle on his face. Eyes still cloaked in shadow by his cap, he swivels his head sideways with rather pointed intent towards the small hoard of baseballs that had suddenly appeared in a corner. …She senses disapproval. Really, she couldn’t say why; thirty seconds playing this game was plenty enough experience for a lifetime.
A brief sigh is followed by a grudging retrieval performed in the space between seconds. If she must play, she at least retains some semblance of dignity; running about chasing after balls fell to the domain of the bumbling schoolgirl. On her return, he is trotting towards her with bat and hand outstretched. The meaning is clear, if the reasoning is murky.
“Oh. No. No, I think you’d better hold on to that.” She finds herself grasping hold of the thick end as he presses it against her hand. “I much prefer to use this kind of thing as a bludgeon.” Her other hand is guided down to the handle. “Or perhaps a javelin; it could use a bit of sharpening on this end.” She moves to hold it like she does her poker before becoming aware of another perfectly expressionless stare. His expression of displeasure was really very harsh.
First ball. She holds it sideways as if she knew what the term ‘bunt’ meant, but really, she is attempting to figure out where her left hand is supposed to go. The ball hits the side of the house and leaves a sizeable mark.
Fourth ball. She holds it like a parasol and swings it as she would if she were a young woman holding an umbrella being relieved of her purse. The imaginary thief suffers a first-rate concussion and doesn’t get up again; neither does the ball, which is smacked straight into the ground.
Fifteenth ball. She does not hold it, and instead, begins ascribing to the theory that blind chance is better than no chance at all. Given all the physics and mechanics involved and given that she blissfully knows none of them, it seems possible that throwing the bat at the ball will result in a greater than 0% chance of the ball moving forward more than a foot. Unfortunately, her aim is really only any good with people named after temporal landmarks, round about 3 o’clock in the afternoon. Both bat and ball hit the side of the house and leaves a sizeable mark.
Twenty-second ball. There is no twenty-second ball.
She coughs a little to herself and sets the ball against the side of the house. “Well! That’s that, then. Let’s do this again sometime, perhaps after I retire.” She is twenty two years old. She turns to leave and walks straight into him and the object held in his hand. The twenty-second ball. …There are pen marks on it. It resembles a face. Glasses, round cheeks, a smug, repugnant smile, and a mop of oily blonde hair.
Twenty-second ball.
They never do find it, despite the reports of broken windows and felled tree branches they hear the next day from the other side of town.