Author's Note: Thanks to Marti for the beta and encouragement on this story.
Madman drummers bummers and Indians in the summer with a teenage
diplomat
In the dumps with the mumps as the adolescent pumps his way into his hat
With a boulder on my shoulder, feelin' kinda older, I tripped the merry-go-round
With this very unpleasing sneezing and wheezing, the calliope crashed to the ground…
And she was blinded by the light
Cut loose like a deuce, another runner in the night
Blinded by the light
She got down but she never got tight, but she'll make it alright
--Bruce Springsteen, "Blinded by the Light"
The alarm trills at six in the morning. She slaps it and it teeters on the edge of the nightstand before falling off completely. Stupid clock.
But it's the fall that wakes her up and she gets out of bed. She is dizzy for a moment, but that's the after-effect of going on a Ferris wheel. Moving on the same path, on the same circle is just not what she likes to do (not anymore.)
She hums happily as she opens the drawers and throws the clothes that she unpacked into her suitcase. She thanks herself for being so lazy and not bothering to remove half of the stuff in her luggage. It takes her fifteen minutes before her bags are packed and shoved into the car.
She doesn't bother showering and dresses in her new tennis outfit. It's a powder blue skirt and a white tank top (part of it was designed by Maria Sharapova—pretty clothes for pretty women.)
She does a once-over of the house—AC turned off, bathrooms cleaned, bed stripped, nothing left—and finds it to her satisfaction. It is only seven in the morning, but she has several engagements before her tennis date.
;';
The bay is beautiful as the sun hovers over the horizon. She sits on the splintery bench and takes in the crabbers setting traps and lines. The occupants of the houses that border this sightseeing spot are asleep—lights aren't on, breakfast isn't being made. She smiles—she wishes she could sleep that late.
So, Cuddy hops off the bench and scoops up a handful of rocks. When she was younger, her father took her and her sister to the bay and instructed them on the finer points of rock throwing. It's all in the wrist.
It takes her a few rocks to finally be able to snap her wrist in just the right way. Muscles remember better than her brain does and she is able to have the rocks skipping three times before she realizes that it's a little past 7:30. She takes another rock and launches it. It sinks slowly after two skips, but she is satisfied and bids a silent farewell to the bay.
Instead of walking to the ocean, she takes her car. It's the last time she will see the house until next summer and says goodbye to it because she's suddenly sentimental. She hates leaving—she hates know that there are another 365 days stretching before her—each one a challenge, each one a journey—and each one standing between her and heaven again.
She crosses the intersection and finds a parking space in front of someone's house. Probably someone sleeping or someone waking—probably someone who won't be happy to find that there's a car that isn't theirs parked in front of their home. Whoops.
She shouldn't wear sneakers on the beach, but she walks through the sand in them anyway. Laziness is a sin. (At least in her mind it is.) She walks to the frothy edge of the waves and sticks a hand into the water. It laps over her fingers and onto her wrist. The grains of sand in the salt water stick to her hand. She removes the hand from the water and wipes it on her skirt. And then she starts running.
Lisa Cuddy isn't a runner. Never has been and she's not starting now. But she runs because of the sudden burst of adrenaline coursing through her system. No one's chasing her, no one's looking for her, she just wants to run.
She runs for what she thinks is hours, but is only a few minutes. Her breasts ache from being jostled up and down (she's never been able to stand the hindrance of her boobs and that's why she's not a runner.) She stops, puts her hands on her knees, and begins to regain her breath. She doesn't know why she sprinted down the beach, but she decides to walk back to her car.
Her farewell to the ocean is terse, just a small glance at the whitecaps in the distance. The wind whips her hair around her face and as she makes her way to her car, she ties it back into a ponytail. The car starts with a twist of her key and she can see the curtain in the house she has pulled in front of pull back curiously.
She stops by a little bagel place and gets a plain bagel and a Snapple. It never hurts to eat before a tennis match, she has learned. Something light—no eggs, bacon, and home fries for her.
She eats the food in her car and watches the other vehicles go by on the street. It's quiet because it's so early and she doesn't mind. That means that the tennis courts will be open and not much of the background noise will interfere with their game.
Their. As in Joe's and hers. She's not sure if she's ever felt comfortable with describing something as theirs or ours. It bothers her the slightest bit—it's her discomfort with commitment, with being part of a pair.
(She'll take bantering opponents, low-attention friends, and doubles partners, but make her part of a more permanent duo and she hates it. She rebels.)
The car's clock reads 8:45 and she switches gears to drive. The courts are two minutes away and she finds a place to park rather quickly. As she waits for Joe, she finishes off her Snapple, digs around for her water, and taps her nails on the steering wheel. Patiently.
Joe's Rolls Royce pulls into the lot. She still can't believe he drives such an ostentatious car. It's too showy for her tastes and she exits her own, shabby-in-comparison car feeling as if she's dressed in her pajamas at a ball.
"Good morning, Lisa."
"Joe."
"Ready to lose? Again?"
"Well, my backhand's been so weak lately…"
;';
Two hours later and her backhand bluff pays off quite nicely. Her best shot is her backhand and he keeps feeding her these lobs that she's just murdering. He's not a bad tennis player and they end up splitting the first two sets. By the time they're on the fourth game of the third set, Joe resigns from the game. She almost throws a tantrum on the court (even though she wins if he forfeits) because she doesn't like to win the easy way.
"I have kids, Lisa, and I did promise them that I'd take them to redeem their tickets."
"Forget your kids. Let's finish this."
"I can't forget my kids. I can't do that."
She uses her racquet as her cane and she leans most of her weight on the Wilson butt-cap as she stares at him from across the court. Truth or dare?
"Alright fine."
She starts to move around and gathers the balls that are hers. He walks to the net and holds out his hand. She shifts the racquet and the balls and shakes his hand.
"Good match," she tells him.
"And the backhand you have is devastating," he responds.
"Thanks."
They walk to their cars in silence. She opens the passenger door of hers and throws her tennis stuff on the seat. She opens the glove box, while he puts his equipment in the trunk of his vehicle.
When they meet to say goodbye, they meet in the middle. She holds her business card and hands it to him.
"Here. If you're in the area, call. We can get together. Play a match. Drink a beer."
He laughs.
"I see you as more of the champagne girl."
She smiles.
"I usually am."
"Well," he moves closer to her and she can smell the cinnamon Ice Breakers on his breath.
"Yeah."
"This is goodbye. I had a great time. Last night and today."
"Me, too."
He bends down and kisses her nose. She smiles gently.
"I'll give you a call sometime," he tells her and starts to back away.
It's then that she remembers something.
"Oh, Joe, wait!"
She rushes to her car and grabs her purse. After a quick search, she finds the ticket with her winnings.
"Here, give this to your kids. I don't want it."
He stares at the number on the check and smiles at her.
"Will do. They'll be really pleased."
She smiles and walks to her car. He does the same. He allows her to pull out first and she turns left.
Home.
;';Two weeks later;';
"Package, Dr. Cuddy."
"From whom?"
The UPS man stands in front of her in her office with a small brown package in his hand. He hands it to her so she can inspect it.
"Don't know, ma'am."
"Alright, do I need to sign something?"
"Yes, just right here."
She scribbles her signature and the deliveryman leaves. She reaches into her desk and pulls out some scissors. She sticks them in between the tape and the cardboard flaps. She gets the box open and discovers a mess of packaging peanuts. She curses the company who sent her whatever is in the box.
When she finally finds what is underneath the Styrofoam nightmare, she gasps. It's another box, but this one has permanent marker scrawled on the outside.
I saw this and thought of you.—Joe.
She opens the box and finds a tennis ball signed by Andy Roddick. A sticker is affixed to it—57, 650 points.
She smiles and realizes how glad she is that she gave her Fantasy Island points to Joe.
End