A spare.

My back was turned when the collision occurred, but I was looking at you, and the way your eyes didn’t move told me what mine missed. You weren’t looking down the lane, you were looking at me, grinning, holding out the large Coke I hadn’t wanted.

In the pocket of my jacket on the seat beside you was an unopened pint. In the bin beneath our scoring table was an empty one.

“My turn,” you said; tipsy, cocky.

I had won the coin toss when we arrived, so you were bowling with my left hand. I handed the cup back to you, frosty acid washing down my throat and into my chest, and picked up the fuchsia ball you’d chosen.

“Watch this,” you whispered,  “motherfucker.”

I released the ball as awkwardly as expected, but the instant it touched the gleaming hardwood, I spun around, horrified, unable to watch what I knew I’d just done.

Your eyes went wide.

crash.

You laughed so hard that you squeezed the lid off the cup, and half its contents into your lap.

—

On the beach six hours later, the moon was nearly bright enough to write by. It had been quiet all night. You were sitting on the drier side of your folded jeans. I noticed something and turned – your eyes were already on mine and I barely caught the fleeting, struck flash behind them. Then you smiled, and broke into laughter again.