The room is thick with tension. Smoke creates a hazy aura, blanketing the people huddled around the table with gray fog. Soft jazz music echoes throughout the room, long since forgotten by the men but still providing melodious notes. The radio it comes from is stationed on the old desk in the corner, dust gathering from years of ignorance. The old gas lamp settled next to it suffers the same fate, as does most everything in the room—except the pool table.
The bright green and dull brown colors are a sharp contrast to each other, but blend in perfectly with the clashing of the men gathered around it. Red and yellow balls are littered around the table’s surface, creating a twisted pattern that will only end with the downfall of one person.
It’s clear which person will meet this fate.
Robert Weston, 35 year old lawyer, stands in the corner, halfway leaning on his cue stick. His teeth worry his bottom lip, biting down hard enough to draw blood. His mind is going a thousand miles a minute, considering every move available to him. He’s two points behind his opponent, and missing this strike could mean losing the entire game. To catch up would mean to take risks, but even with that, his options are quite limited. He could aim for the ball in the far right side, that would easily go in—that’s not his ball. The solid green ball is a stretch, but it works. And it looks as though that’s the only sensible option.
“We have all day, take your time, sweetie,” A man to his left says. The others chuckle under their breath, too suffocated by the focus radiating off the players crowding the air. To break the silence is to break the players.
Weston lines his stick up with the cue ball. One, two, three tests, and intense observation. The angle, the perspective, even the shadows—it all plays a part.
One more test try, and he’s launching the cue stick towards the ball. It hits, sending a wave of momentum towards the green ball. The white is able to intercept the green, as Weston had hoped. Only one more thing has to happen and he has this game in the bag.
Everyone leans forward in suspense. Time has slowed, the clock ticking on the wall no longer existent. The evening air doesn’t spill in from the open balcony doors, the night sky isn’t a messy mix of blues and purples. The only thing to tell the hour is the green ball, rolling across the table at an excruciatingly slow pace.
It’s so close. And with it, the victory that Weston can almost taste. The cheers of the men, the grumbles of the defeated, the money tossed every which way as bets are cashed in. Weston clings onto what little hope he has of victory, praying that the ball will be on his side.
The green ball slows down even more. It’s mere inches from the pocket, taunting everyone with hope and fear. Dangling it in front of their faces.
It’s rolling, still rolling, and—
It goes in.
Everything is still for a moment, then it all comes rushing back. As though a carriage hit him, Weston stumbles back, in shock from the unexpected victory. Time reappears, the ticks louder than before, and everyone is able to get their bearings.
As soon as they do, cheers ring through the room. Nonsensical noises, merely gibberish to express their excitement. Weston doesn’t try to make sense of it. Nor does he want to. With the game practically in his hands, he’s able to sit back and enjoy the excitement from afar.
“Fuck you,” William Smith mumbles, Weston catching it from the opposite end of the table.
“You can only hope,” Weston responds, a grin spreading across his face. He’s too giddy for this fool to bring him down.
“All right, all right. Smith, your shot.” Someone from the side backtracks, ready for the game to begin again. Their calming tone quells everyone, the silence settling back over the men again.
Smith surveys the table. Standing as straight as me in middle school, he picks his victim, bending over slightly and positioning his cue stick. From an outsider’s point of view, he’s screwed. From an insider’s, he has a chance—but he’s still mostly screwed.
If Weston had picked out the right one, Smith has no chance whatsoever. He’d need a miracle to get the red ball into the pocket without nicking the eight ball. And to nick that in the position it’s in now? Weston underestimated his chance of victory tonight.
Smith inhales deeply, getting a whiff of the cigar smoke circulating around the room. He shuts his eyes, blocking out the stares from his comrades and opening them to just the cue ball. Everything besides the white dot is blurred, his attention not able to be spared for anything else.
He aims, tests it. The angle is off a bit.
He adjusts, aims, tests it. Still off. He’d hit the eight ball before the red if he plays it like this.
He adjusts a final time, aims, tests it. It should work.
So he fires. Off the cue ball goes, the domino effect playing out before Smith’s eyes. It gets to the red ball, nudging it in the right direction. Everything looks like it’s going to play out perfectly, pun intended, but something happens—something terrible.
The eight ball is contacted.
And faster than the cue ball itself, the black ball rolls towards a pocket. It’s greeted with open arms, welcoming both the cursed ball and Smith’s defeat.
Much like when Weston’s got the impossible shot down, the men start up with their cheers or boos. The support and teasing grows and grows, bills and coins being passed around in accordance with the bets placed beforehand. Smith slumps onto the table. His head hits the wooden barrier, but it’s nice—he can take a break before being taunted by Weston.
A finger taps his shoulder. Smith groans.
“Yes?” He says, overly cheerful as he lifts his eyes to those of Weston’s. A small smile fights to place itself upon his lips as he braces himself for his friend’s hesitant gloating.
“You did a wonderful job, sir. I wish you the best of luck in the next game.” Weston responds. Not the thing Smith was expecting to hear, but welcome nonetheless.
“Oh, thank you, sir. It was a pleasure playing with you, and I wish you great luck as well.” Smith smiles through the pain, tacking on a sir as his old friend did with a taunting lilt.
“Do you not think me lucky enough?” Weston questions, a confused and offended face replacing his playful one. “Why should you feel the need to wish me luck?”
Smith panics. “I did not think to even imply this, sir. To do so would be nonsensical, as we all know your skills are great enough to never require luck.”
“I jest, my friend,” Weston laughs, his serious exterior fading away. “Thank you for the sentiment.”
“You son of a bitch.” Smith exhales loudly through his nose, relief striking him to his core.
“You appreciate me all the same, Smith. Though I doubt that love will be as strong when I finish you in the next game.” Weston says, grabbing the block of chalk resting on the table’s corner and bringing it to his cue stick’s tip.
“I’d love to play another round, but I must get going. I have an early meeting tomorrow and would hate to show up tired from beating you. Could you imagine the conversation?” Smith slips away from Weston’s mental grasp, the pull of the pool table strong—but not strong enough.
He’s already halfway out the door before Weston turns to him again. Chalk now back on the table, the white dust coating the man’s fingertips and the cue stick, he looks a sight for a newly appointed victor.
“Just because you’ve managed to slip away this time doesn’t mean next time will be the same, Smith. I know you want to go another round.” Weston says, looking Smith dead in the eye as he speaks.
It certainly enunciates his point. Smith laughs breathily, tilting his head as he responds. “I’d expect nothing less, Robert. I shall see you when that time comes.”
And with that, he’s out the door before Weston can even think to formulate a response. The man left at the pool table sarcastically waves to the empty doorway, the absence of his friend already making the room feel less welcoming.
He shakes off the feeling, along with the miniscule blush that appeared with Smith’s use of his first name. No matter. Just a tease between friends.
Friends.
“Gentlemen! Can I offer anyone an opponent?” Weston turns suddenly. He just needs something else to focus on, something to get Smith off his mind.
One brave man clambers up to the table, cue stick already in hand. Perfect, a worthy rival for the time being.
But—of course—the man has Will’s dimples.
This is going to be a hard game to win.