Solids & Stripes (cont'nd)
Hap is above me, chin dripping. I'm bent to the table, stalling. He's staring down. He seems to be standing. On his own. Where is his cue? Where is his cane? Hap doesn't say anything.
I look back to the table. I shoot blindly and hope. Balls fly into pockets, but I'm not sure which ones.
Hap moves, so I guess that didn't go well. He's walking just fine now, left right left right. No cane. His pool cue is across his shoulders, horizontal behind his neck. His hands dangle from it. Like a milkmaid. You look like a milkmaid, I yell and swipe at him with my stick. It grazes his forehead, scratching Hap's face. Blood collects at his brow. I finish his drink. I light a cigarette. I take a drag. The nicotine is too much. I shut my eyes and stumble backward. Hap circles the table, smiling.
It doesn't feel right, Hap winning like this. But maybe I'm winning. Hap can't walk like that. Hap has a cane? Where is Hap's cane. That's not Hap. That's me. Hap is me. Hap must be me. I don't lose like this. He doesn't walk like that. This can't be.
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Hap is me. He is Hap. Hap is Hap. Hap is Hap. Hap is Hap.
Hap drips red over the table, striping the solids, dotting the stripes.
Hap stays back, studying Hap as he drips over the game.
Hap shoots. The balls leave dark trails on felt. The table becomes striped. Balls sink.
Hap wins. Hap loses.
And then, just like that, Hap walks out. Left right left right left right. No cane. Hap walks out of the bar. Hap is gone.
Hap watches Hap as Hap leaves. Hap slumps on the green table, beat. nth
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