Asimov’s Dream

She had everything you could want in a tennis partner except for the strokes. Her light blue top presenting her upper half with enthusiasm as she ran for the high backhands. It was hard to determine if her aggressive figure was enhanced or the result of some combination of genetics and youth. It was her service motion that reminded me of our previous acquaintance.

“I think we know each other,” I said from the next court. “From Friday Night Tennis. I can’t recall your name, I am Johnathan.”

“Yes,” she said, taking a step or two towards my court. “Myra,” she said. “I remember you.”

I began to lose some focus on the tennis match on my court. This could happen. Today, as the clouds passed between us and the emerging sun, I am happily coupled. Still, the gravitational force infected my play.

I was serving well. My game was not at risk, but I could feel the split in my attention. In many previous seasons of bachelorhood a nearby siren could often cause a derailment. I noticed the hawk behind my friend, atop the cell tower. I pulled my energy back into focus and served out the winning game as the powder blue Myra continued unmolested.

Read more Short-Short Stories from John.