Sudden Death

Second Set, Third Game

Game. The poet flung his racket on the ground, betraying his desperation for the first time. The artist sprawled on the pavement, his arms outstretched, his smile beatific. Set to the Lombard, cried the mathematician, one — one; tiebreak for the court. Osuna approached the poet. He said into his ear that he had to stop acting like a child and get ready to kick and bite if necessary: If you’re not on the service side, you’re fucked; when you were on the receiving side you couldn’t even get it near the motherfucking dedans.