You had to expect that your opponent knew everything about you – how you shifted on defense, how you reacted to a long assault – that they’d found out about your ex, and invite them to your match (a former Facebook relationship, even Henry McKenzie could’ve figured it out)- but bringing the cat – your former pseudo-child – that was really something.
You had to stay focused… everyone, everywhere in capitalism, was trying to get an edge… a few families controlled the market, and made the laws they would have to follow… Armstrong lived strong on drugs… players invited your ex-girlfriends to your final match: You had to keep your mind focused, and be in absolute control of yourself, even if absolute control was an illusion to keep you working… The cat was really a next level move.
She lost a point as she thought of little-mister-chi-chi… sandpaper tongue, how he growled like a dog, the last time he peed on her bed…
Time out: Her ex walked towards the court, and kissed her opponent’s closed mask, getting dirt on her chin.
Stay in control, an ex is an ex, you don’t own them any more now than you did before, people aren’t possessions, this person is just peeing on her leg in front of me… Her ex made eye contact in the general direction of her face, to the mask, the secret now out, trying to gauge her reaction through the dark screen.
For some reason, the audience applauded.
Little-mister-chi-chi had made it to court, too, having escaped his fair-trade-bag from the company that had just sponsored-a-genocide, and pounced down, through the bleachers, on the court, past the new couple, and into her arms.
word by Liam Lachance
colour by Li-Hill