Trophy

For the past several years, Nicole had won the club’s annual tournament, though the competition hadn’t been exactly fierce. Most of the other girls at the club snubbed their noses at athletics. “Oh, I hear you’re playing the games again. Do you actually enjoy it?”

Golf and tennis were the reasons Nicole had consented to join the club in the first place. Greg didn’t care what she did, as long as she made appearances from time to time, so she took long walks on the golf course, and practiced her forehand and backhand against various walls. She wasn’t sure what the other wives did, but they spent all their time at the club at the clubhouse. Playing bridge? Sipping margaritas? They probably sat around talking about what a disgrace she was, to the club, to the aristocracy and womanhood. She hoped that’s what they talked about.

“Hey,” came a voice behind her at the tennis court. “You want to go a round?” Nicole turned. Her first thought was, “I didn’t think they’d let a black girl in here,” but that was an acknowledgement of their racism, not her own. She said, “Sure!” and introduced herself.

Bethany had an amazing serve. Once they got a rally going, they seemed evenly matched, but Nicole could barely get to the ball from a standstill. “Where’d you learn to hit like that?”

“Oh, I sleep with the tennis instructor,” the woman said, but she was joking. She was tall and beautiful and quick-witted. Nicole smiled.

“Looks like I’m going to have some competition this year.”

“Wish I could say the same.”

She was only joking, Nicole told herself. She was only joking, she told the other wives, her cards face-up on the table, her cocktail salty.

#athletics, #big-fish, #classism, #jealousy, #leisure, #microfiction, #racism, #sexism, #small-pond, #sports, #the-best

Advertisement

Two friends of opposite genders are watching a sporting event on television. The woman is bored. The man is enthusiastic. His enthusiasm bores her more than the game itself. He looks over to her after what to him was an exciting play, and she nods to avoid corrupting his childlike wonder.

Maintaining the implicit deceit in her demeanor is exhausting. She stands up for a break.

“Hey, will you get me a Coke?” the man says, not looking from the screen. He gives a thumbs up in her direction.

She agrees. Opening the fridge, she finds the last bottle of Coca-Cola behind a number of rotten vegetables. A bag of carrots has turned into a semi-transparent ooze, and what used to be a head of lettuce has become a solid ball of maggot. She finds a plastic bag and puts it over her hand. Keeping her gaze on the floor, she pulls out groceries, plunging them out the window into a handy trash compactor. The vegetables produce a visible odor.

A jar of black mayonnaise crashes against the floor. The mold of it seems to be crawling toward her. She backs away. Snatching the Coke, she runs from the kitchen, slamming the door behind her.

She sits down and casually hands the man the beverage. He says, “Alright!” not at her or the soda, but at something on the screen. He rips off the bottlecap and pours the liquid down his gullet. “Woo hoo!” he says. “We did it!”

The wall behind them turns a greenish black. The color fills the room, but the man doesn’t notice. The woman closes her eyes and cheers for the home team, too. She might as well.

Coca-Cola: Your Only Responsibility

#absurd, #advertisement, #coca-cola, #misogyny, #sports, #squalor