Rebound
I sit here, patiently, waiting to be used. I know that I am useful, and he knows it too. For him, I wear many hats; I fulfill many needs.
He enters, closes the door, we are alone. He sees me waiting, sitting seductively on the corner of his desk. He is urgent in his need, grabbing me roughly and bringing me near his face. He contemplates me for a moment, then tosses me away. I am dejected, I am desperate, but I will rebound. Soon, I am back in his hands again. I am constant, I am loyal. Always I return, knowing my role in our game.
He often holds me, caressing my smooth lines with calloused palms and long fingers. My roundness cupped in his hands, I rest against his stubbled cheek. Deep in thought, always, he is lost in thought; absentmindedly stroking me. I am happiest when he needs me.
Eyes unfocused, staring through me; he stares at me, but never sees me. I am always here, waiting for him to notice me. In his eyes, I am an object; I exist solely for his pleasure.
I miss the days when he would take me outside. We would spend hours together, enjoying the sunshine, the feeling of wind and grass and motion. He rarely goes out anymore; he never takes me when he does. I catch brief glimpses of the world outside this place, but just as quickly they are snatched away from me. I don't like it when he teases me like this, as futile as banging my head on the wall, the window, the floor. But I beg for it, I always come back for more.
Darkness, artificial light, stale air and music surround me now. I enjoy the music that plays from his new little machine. It is happy, and upbeat, and we tap-tap-tap in time to the rhythm. Or it is somber and melancholy, and I roll and sway softly with him. The music reminds him of movement, only then does he remember me.
Without him, I am lonesome but very rarely alone. The others halfheartedly toss me around, passing me from one to another, but it is not the same. They do not know where I came from, or what I do here, but still they toy with me or else they stare at me, puzzled. I do not enjoy being used by them. They are too rough with me, only he treats me with care.
I bring him ideas, pressed to his grizzled chin. Rasping whispers between stubble and fuzz, I soothe him so he can relax; bringing the thoughts jumbled in his head into focus as he twirls me in his hands or strokes my red hair.
He uses me to get their attention, I thump on the glass wall that separates them from us. They try to ignore me, I pound more insistently. My power is too great; when I call, they know to come. Running into his office, they listen to his newest idea. He uses me to illustrate his point; I hang in the air for a moment, unsettled, weightless.
Satisfied, we bounce one last time before he places me on his desk with a loving squeeze. Forgotten until he needs me again. He picks up his cane, and lets the others lead him away. How I hate that damn stick, ever taking him away from me.
The youngest one, a blonde, grabs me and asks, "She's a beauty, but where'd you find one this size?" He tosses me into the air, I don't like it when he does this.
"She's my ball. Don't touch," he responds with a quick thwack of his cane. He plucks me from mid-air and sets me gently down again. His crooked grin the last thing I see, disappears from my view. He will return.
I will sit here, patiently, waiting to be used.