NOTE: This one has been sitting on my hard drive since last summer. Unlike Sandrine's 2.0, I DO have the ending finished. There's a chunk in the middle that needs work, but really, there is an end. I swear. I've just been reluctant to post this because it's a little bit...different. It may be interesting only to me, and only in a kind of technical, grad-school sort of way. So I'll throw this first bit out to see if anybody bites. Enjoy.
"Context Clues"
"Thirty-love."
I glance up from my notebook long enough to watch the small redheaded woman toss the tennis ball high in the air and serve it over the net. The tall blonde opposite her shifts to her backhand to return the hard serve, and the two women begin to volley again. The tennis ball flies back and forth over the net while they both duck and dart in pursuit.
There's a significant age difference between them – the redhead looks to be in her mid-forties, while the blonde is much closer to my own age – and the gulf between their skill levels is wide, too. I suspect the redhead was an elite player at one time. The blonde is younger, quicker and stronger, but they've been playing for over an hour and the redhead hasn't even broken a sweat.
I watch for a moment, then take up my pen and return to my notebook.
Outside the rain had stopped, the trees had stilled and the clouds over the field had begun to roll toward the distant horizon. As I sat there, alone in a room full of people, I wondered if—
"Forty-love." After she announces the score, the redhead serves the ball again. I try to focus on my writing.
Alone in a room full of people, I wondered if anyone understood how much I—
"Forty-fifteen."
How much I—
"Forty-thirty."
How much—
"Game."
Frustrated, I look up and watch the blonde bounce the ball twice on the court before she flings it up and serves it back to her opponent to start a new game. I'm struck by the obvious differences in the way the two women play. The blonde relies primarily on brute force in her strategy. Forehand or backhand, her every shot sizzles across the net and powers to the baseline, where the redhead waits with her racket poised. The redhead's game is one of precision and finesse. She sends the ball corner to corner until her opponent overcommits and she connects on a passing shot, or, more often, angles the head of her racket, softens her wrist and drops the ball half a meter over the net where the blonde cannot possibly get to it. The redhead's strategy is nuanced, crafty and confident, while the blonde's strategy is one-dimensional and…naïve.
The redhead scores three straight points, and I return to my notebook.
I wondered if anyone understood how much I had lost, and how little I had left to live for. They continued to talk in hushed tones behind me. They assumed I couldn't hear, but every word they whispered—
"Fifteen-forty."
Every word they whispered—
"Thirty-forty."
Every word—
"Deuce."
I sigh and close my notebook.
The score shifts back and forth for a few minutes. The two women trade points, neither able to earn two in a row to take the game. The blonde seems to have finally adapted slightly to the redhead's strategy, incorporating some of it into her own. She scores on a drop shot that clearly startles the redhead, but the redhead counters on the next point with a service return that blows by the blonde before she has time to react. Deuce again.
I reopen my notebook to a blank page in the back. The Story—I still can't bring myself refer to it by its proper title, not yet—isn't cooperating today, so I fall back on a writer's exercise. While I watch them play, I try to jot down distinct words to describe the two players. The blonde: Burnished. Lithe. Glossy. Agile. Sleek. Gorgeous. I smile, looking at that last word. I may be in a serious relationship, but I'm not dead.
"Deuce." While I've been contemplating words, the two have exchanged points again. I watch the older player and make another list. The redhead: Nimble. Resilient. Elegant. Cunning. Playful. Lovely.
Across the court from me, a broad-shouldered man watches the match closely. His narrowed eyes follow the ball from end to end, resting now and then on each of the women as if contemplating them. Comparing them, just as I am comparing them. I make a new list in my notebook. The big man: Thoughtful. Attentive. Perceptive. Sensitive.
I glance at the second man sitting across the court, and write one more word: Oblivious. I don't think he's looked up from the PADD in his hands since the match began, not even to notice the beauty of the mountains surrounding the resort on three sides, or the sandy beach that begins just a few meters beyond the end of the tennis court. He certainly doesn't appreciate the grace of the two lovely women playing tennis right in front of him.
"Advantage out." I can hear the blonde's frown when she announces the point. As I look up from my notebook, she serves. The redhead returns it easily from her backhand and the volley is on. The blonde dashes from sideline to sideline, until the redhead overplays a backhand and leaves her an opening. The blonde reaches out and attempts a passing shot…but the redhead has anticipated it. She might have even planned it, offering the opening in her game as bait for the passing shot. With a slight smile on her face, she darts to the net and pushes a drop shot away from the blonde, who stops and stares at the ball as it dribbles by.
"Game, set, match!" the redhead proclaims. The blonde grits her teeth and nods in concession.
The broad-shouldered man chuckles. "Nice shot, Kathryn," he calls. The redhead winks at him as she trots to the sideline, her tennis skirt swishing around her pert backside. The blonde gives them both a frosty look and stalks along behind the redhead. The second man still does not react, not even when the redhead places her hand on his shoulder and leans close to him.
I know who all of them are.
Everyone at the resort knows, but we've kept our distance—from them and from each other. Elite and exclusive, The Portage is a place where high-profile people go to hide. I'm not so high-profile, personally, but the income from my first book is paying for this much-needed escape from my second book's disappointing reviews. Even though The Portage is just across the Cook Strait from my Wellington apartment, this is such a sheltered and shuttered place that I feel like I'm a universe away. I assume these two couples—Admiral Kathryn Janeway and Federation Councilman Marcel Toussaint, Captain Chakotay and Seven of Nine—have come here to avoid the fallout of the Shinzon Affair on the one hand, and the relentless press coverage of their upcoming wedding on the other.
I've been watching them for two days.
They were already here when I arrived, and it took me most of a day to realize that they hadn't all arrived together. On the surface they may look like four old friends enjoying some fun in the sun together at the height of the New Zealand summer, but I don't think this rendezvous was deliberately planned.
I can't quite articulate why I think that. Chakotay is as attentive to Seven as a fiancé should be. I've seen him offer her his arm as they navigate the resort's restaurant and bar. Late last night I caught them in a passionate embrace in a dark corner of the lobby. For her part, Janeway nearly always has a hand on Toussaint's back or shoulder, even though I suspect he rarely notices it.
But Janeway and Chakotay together… They watch each other. They find each other's gaze. When they do anything as a foursome, they maneuver themselves – whether consciously or not – so that they are the ones sitting or walking side-by-side, with Seven and Toussaint flanking them.
They orbit one another, binary stars locked in an endless, primeval dance.
Janeway towels the sweat from her face and announces that their lunch reservations are in less than an hour. The four of them stroll off the court and back toward the main resort building. As I watch, the Captain falls in at the Admiral's side, stops himself, and reaches back for Seven of Nine.
I reopen my notebook to the back and add a word to his list: Conflicted.
Then I flip to the page where I'd left off with The Story, now that the court is empty and silent again.
They assumed I couldn't hear, but every word they whispered cut into me like a jagged, rusty blade. "First his mother, now his father," someone murmured. "It's too much for one so young." I didn't feel young. The face that was reflected back to me from the rain-streaked window was unlined and unblemished, a boy's face. But the pain inside me was ancient.
-End Part 1-