Within Reach

Ping-pong boy is destroying another innocent victim.

I pity poor kid on the other side of the table.

Ping-pong boy smiles kindly, but that doesn’t

make poor kid feel any better.

2-0. 3-0. 4-0.

Wanna go to ten

instead of twenty-one?

Sure.

The weightless white speck vanishes

in the same microsecond, it tapped down in

poor kid’s quadrant.

Where’d ‘it go?

Ping-Pong Boy points to the ground.

Poor Kid misses the serve.

7-0.

He’s not making a comeback. I think I’ll ask ping-pong kid if

I can play the winner.

8-0. 9-0. Effortless. Ping-pong boy gives me a good stare.

I say nothing.

He gives me another second.

Ping-pong boy misses the lob that bounced twice on his side.

9-1.

I start to ask, but bite my tongue.

My fear is a tornado, swirling me into the air

like grandma’s old sycamore tree. It won’t put me

back down

in one piece.

10-1. Sporty kid just walked in.

He gets next.

Within reach.

Quiet boy comes in. I see him out of

my peripheral.

Guilt crawls up my spine.

Quiet kid takes his usual place, against the blithely colored

polka dotted wall contrasting the discrete frown

on his face.

He sees me peek his way.

Dodgers loosing, he mumbles, with a gesture

to the sharp LA engraved on his dark blue baseball cap

I want to tell him the Dodgers suck,

but pity gets the better of me,

so I go back to ping-pong.

6-0.

Poor-kid shoves his shaggy blonde hair at his face,

Before taking a whiff at the light ball in front of him.

It makes it to my side.

Barely.

I don’t waste an opportunity.

The ball scrapes the surface of Poor-Boy’s

side. He swats at it like a fly, but

the fly always wins. 7-0.

My heart isn’t in the obliteration.

Quiet boy’s still standing there.

A stupid older brother called empathy

shoves my heart into a swimming pool of guilt.

8-0. This game isn’t going to take long.

Sporty boy comes inside,

sweat dripping down his back.

Water break.

Sporty boy laughs at poor-kids’ flailing strokes between gulps.

9-0.

My heart surfaces,

but the faraway look painted

across quiet boy’s soft eyes

causes it to dive back in.

Probably should ask quiet boy if he wants to play.

9-1.

I get to business. Game over.

I sneak a peek at quiet boy’s corner, hoping

he’d left.

Sporty boy asks if he can take me next.

What was I supposed to say?

Sure.

Within reach.

Sporty Boy throws a spiral across the field

cutting through the air like a knife to a juicy steak.

His Counterpart catches it behind the back with swagger.

A colorful word slips through the lips of

his counterpart in celebration, as he airs out a

length of the field pass.

I take a glance at the soccer kids playing an earnest game on

the other side of the field.

Join in, whispers hope,

the teams wouldn’t be even,declares logic,

You aren’t good enough,shouts despair.

Sporty boy is nice,begins hope, ask to play

monkey in the middle.

You aren’t tall enough, logic argues.

They don’t need another ‘friend,’roars

despair.

I pull out friend from my pocket.

4-2.

Even the Dodgers can’t pull one out

when it matters.

Sporty boy smiles. His Counterpart tips his cherry-red Nationals hat at me in an effort of kindness.

I throw my hat to the ground.

Zing. Zing. Bumblebees are squashed to the ground mid-flight

as the perfect arc of the ball beheads the tiny creatures.

It looks fun.

Guess I’ll have some more pizza. Within reach.

Quiet Boy is looking at his phone again.

He grimaces.

Did he expect the Dodgers to win?

My Counterpart slings the ball across the field.

I watch in awe as it whizzes past the ten, twenty, thirty,

Is that the forty-yard line, with unbelievable speed, and

Perfect accuracy.

I glance at Quiet Boy. It wouldn’t be that hard

To ask his to join in as a triangle.

My return throw wobbles, drops short.

My Counterpart laughs.

I try to flick the angel on my shoulder to the ground,

but he keeps knocking.

I imagine Quiet Boy throwing a colossal

football in his miniscule hands.

He looks at his phone again.

He chucks his hat at the ground.

More than a baseball game is bothering him tonight.

It’s for his own good, my devil says to assuage the pangs of ignorance

my counterpart would

show him no mercy.

Quiet boy walks around and gets another slice of pizza.

Pepperoni with anchovies.

It’s not food he’s hungry for.

I drop my counterpart’s perfect strike.

Within reach.

Brown eyes smiles invitingly from across the room,

begging me to flirt,

to talk about my weekend,

to distract.

Happiness courses through my veins.

I feel My blue eyes twinkle like the

North star for the lost hiker,

my lips curve upward.

For a rare second, I display my chipped yellow teeth.

Then I remember.

The smile leaps off my faces as quickly as it came about.

I stare at my limp hands.

Brown eyes keeps staring.

I can feel her gaze melting through my pale skin

like the fire to the gooey marshmallow I just

devoured.

The smile slips away from her eyes but she keeps

staring.

She looks alone.

But –

But there’s no way I can help her.

Not after –

No way.

I peek back. Brown eyes is talking to other girls.

Too late.

The view of my hands becomes the scenery for the evening.

Within reach.

Quiet Boy looks me in the eye.

His face perks up.

My face perks up.

His blue eyes twinkle like a dog who’s found a bone.

My heart skips a beat.

He shows his teeth, chipped on every side.

Beautiful. Talk to me, I beg silently.

He must see my loneliness.

A look of bitter remorse wipes his face clean of

happiness.

He stares at the carpet.

He’s either blind or really preoccupied.

I tilt my head awkwardly, just in time to see

him blinking rapidly.

I look at him longingly.

What’s your secret quiet boy?

I will listen.

I’m not strong enough to help the

brokenhearted.

Not now.

Not strong enough to pray,

to force another smile,

another laugh,

another word.

But I can listen.

I can cry with him.

If only he knew.

He keeps staring at the ground.

Sister’s gone to sea.

Tall Guy forgot to ask me how my week went.

Quiet Boy’s doesn’t want to talk.

Why has the whole world gone quiet,

when my life is so loud?

Too-Cheerful, and Eye-Shadow walk up.

Let’s go for a walk and watch sporty boy.

Eye-Shadow asks with pathetic passion.

Too-Cheerful bounces up and down, red and blue braids

bobbing violently. She approves.

I’m a sheep led to slaughter.

Within reach.