Between No and Never

Was it always this?   
Did we always wait?


Hints 
Quirks
Laughs


And nothing


Smirk
Jibe
Grimace


And we're done
Take a bow.


Sometimes you'd see
And I would smile
How would I know
You'd look the other way after


Memories strangulate
Words sear
Unsaid ones


The sent ones are done 
Bled out in ink


You forget
I said no
I'll always remember
You said never

To The Darkness

I owe thee a debt of gratitude
for all you'll show is silhouette and shadow
leaving one to guess
what I am in the light...

Just Look Back, Mickey...

Thud. Thud. Thud. The tennis ball beat its usual tattoo on the wall. Only this time, it didn't help. The only effect it had was to disfigure the wall, leaving yet more impressions on it. The kind that made her brother mad. Don't throw it at the wall, he'd said. She'd thrown it at him instead. He'd left her alone for a week.

THUD. Too fast, she yelped (she talked to herself), and stopped it seconds before it crashed into her mirror. Pause. That reflection. Eyes, black as midnight. She loved them. Even more than all the guys who fell for her did. A pretty face. Very pretty. Beautiful even. She knew it. Always had. Knew it to the extent she wished she didn't.

Wow, you're gorgeous! Hello to you too, perfect-stranger-I'm-meeting-for-the-first-time.  Get over it. But they seemed to be unable to. So she played with tennis balls. And badminton racquets. She was agile, quick and talented. No one who saw her smash on a badminton court, would treat her as just a pretty face, ever again. EVER. She was deadly to play, cool, calculated, and very, very competitive. She gave no quarter, and she played to win. Always.

Most guys smiled at the pretty face. It was the only time she smiled back. Invitingly. Before leaving their ego calling for its mommy on the floor. Oh wait, that wasn't right. She smiled after it too. 

Very few guys will ask out a girl (again), after she's thrashed him at a sport. Especially not one with speed and power. Not that it mattered. The male ego wouldn't recover being beat at tic-tac-toe by a pretty girl. Once, after a match, a guy had said, there, I let you win, so dazzled was I by your beauty. Now go out with me? She'd punched him.

That's when her dad had bought her the tennis ball. Come back home, throw it at the wall. You've got a week to get good at it anyway, since you're on suspension. Thud. She laughed at the memory. She loved her dad. He'd raised her and her brother alone.

Back to today's wall pounding. It was her defence mechanism, her anger therapy. So she didn't punch anyone else in the guts. Or in this case, because she couldn't.

He was new. Different. When she put him down, he laughed. And meant it. When she beat him at badminton, he was admiring. Athletic himself, he'd challenged her to a game. She'd won. Comprehensively. He'd bought her a chocolate sundae. Something her dad would do, for he was the one who had taught her to win. And more importantly, how to lose. No failure is ever final. But we forget so easily that no victory is either, he always said. And she always remembered.

Why was winning against him so hard then? Thud. Why did it sting to see that gleam of admiration in his eyes? Thud, extra fast this time, and she barely managed to control the ricochet, closing the fingers of her left hand around the neon green projectile, bruising a finger in the process. Ordinarily, she was glad when people didn't stare, relieved that her beauty was not serving its usual annoying purpose. The only guys she talked to were the ones who didn't hit on her. Why was it so frustrating then?

He laughed with her, arm around her shoulder. He messed with her hair and she laughed. It usually annoyed the crap out of her, even her dad wasn't allowed to touch her hair. But he could. Her eyes itched. She reached up and scratched them, and when she pulled away, her fingers came away black. Angry, she flung the ball at the wall, and caught it with both hands. It now resembled a badly handled apple, smudged fingerprints all over it. Not my day, she mumbled, as she wiped it off. Stupid kajal, he didn't even notice anyway. Everyone else had, one guy going so far as to say that her eyes shone like onyx. Yes, because you've seen so much of onyx, she'd snapped back. And had walked on, with a smile. He HAD to see, had to notice how beautiful his playmate was. 

He didn't. Merely said his usual hi, and fallen right into a discussion of why Obama should not win a peace prize. He was vocal, and always had a point. Valid ones at that. She’d stared at him all day, to no avail. When she’d gotten home, her dad had raised one eyebrow. And then said, your eyes need no help, darling. You should know that. She had hugged him, something she did so rarely. He’d laughed, and they’d eaten lunch.

Thud. Oh brilliant, does kajal come off walls? She threw it again, realizing that she didn't really care. She really was very good, catching the ball with a natural ability. He called her, the only girl I know who can catch. And he was forever chucking things at her, and nodding in superior admiration every time she caught it.

He confused her. How do you admire me without liking me? She knew she never wanted to lose to him. But it was almost like she wanted him to know that. You are someone I will never lose to. But you are someone I would lose for. Huh? CRASH. Dammit! Momentary lapse in concentration, she'd shattered the glass of a painting. A portrait. Of her, by her brother. Dammit dammit dammit. She would have to tell him she'd done it with the ball. Like she didn't have enough on her mind.

Speaking of which...where had that thought come from? She was picking up the glass pieces now, probably not the best time to be lost in thought. But really, what was that? Why would she lose for him? And yet, the thought was compelling. For you, I would lose. Why? 

Man, this wasn't helping, she’d been thinking about it for days now, and she always hit a block. Always stopped at the same point. Why does it feel right losing for you?

The doorbell. She opens it, he stands there, racquet in hand. Ready to beat me again, he asks, grinning. If only you knew. He steps away, to answer a call.

Her dad comes in, sees the open door, him, her, and her eyes now free from kajal. No failure is final, Mickey, he says. She stares. He smiles. Of course he knew, he always did. Call me when you’re done, it feels like a chocolate sun - dae! They laugh, together, in the memory of a silly childhood expression.

She looks out the door, and then at her racquet, a gift, from her dad, the day she’d beaten him. She walks out, taps him on the shoulder. Let’s go mister, you have a match to lose.

At the corner, she looks back. Her dad, standing at the door. And right then she knows. Between him and her, she’ll never need to lose. All she needs to do is look back.