Our breaths hang in the air, eyes fixed on the server who has his
body poised subjugated beneath the suspended ball

of neon, dancing the ritual of service, left hand
raised, tracking the ball, right hand gripping the racket, ready

to strike, then breaking the suffocating silence with
the split-second impact smashing the ball, which digs into to right

corner of the opposite service box, caught by my
sharp-eyed partner who reciprocates

the attack, ripping through the ball and
sending it back, which is immediately

stolen from the air by the eager
volleyer, her shot exploding like dynamite

between us, which my partner flies
towards, taking my side of the court, and

hearing his footsteps, I instinctively move
right, and hear his racket strings meet

the ball inches from the ground, delivering
it with an indignant thrust, but the

return is a disappointing
fraction of my partner's force, the blur of

lime green slowing down to a single point in space, floating
in a perfectly low arc, barely crossing over the net, and igniting the

fire in both of our feet, we both
pound toward the ball, racing

with all the speed we can
muster, and with me being there first, I

scoop the drop shot back into the air, but
sensing my partner's sudden apprehension, I

realize my mistake and watch
helplessly as the ball drifts higher and higher, until it loops obediently

down toward the expectant opponent, who cradles the tired ball on his
racket, and with a swift

movement sends it bulleting toward
my leg, and with

less than the
time to

blink,
I try dodging, but

the ball stings my
shin and I involuntarily cry out.

Game.