12/1

league night and we are rolling at alley cat lanes.
the thunderbolt. that is what i call it. my mustache, as it strikes women dead in their tracks. the slow roll of the bowling ball, from my hand, is the rumble of thunder. i strain, perched one leg stiff long pointed behind me, one arm straight to the side and the rolling arm extended down the lane. i form a perfect 't' as the ball moves towards the center pin i turn around head down, then suddenly, as the ball explodes into the pins i look up into her eyes and 'bam' lightening strikes.
'rick naljev, how are you?' i say extending my non wrist guarded hand.
'pam, fine, good...you knew it was a strike?' she asks.
'i always do.'
this is a league night so i am wearing our 'pin heads' ruffled white tuxedo shirt and blue polyester slacks. i can feel the cool air rustle the fabric against my thin frame. pam has highlights through her dirty blonde hair, she is five two with grey blue eyes and a simple beautiful face. she is above average and that is good.
'you want to sit and enjoy some of my chili fries?' i ask.
'ooh, a real romeo,' she says.
'so, what brings you here?'
she spins a fry through the chili onion and cheese staring down sheepishly. she moves slightly casting her eyes against my adams apple while placing the fry through her teeth she speaks, 'i was supposed to be meeting someone but i guess they couldn't make it.'
i run my fore finger across the thunderbolt and watch her eyes trace my movements. the juke box starts to play a familiar song from the eighties as i lean forward and say, 'some men are intimidated by beauty, me, i admire it.'
'oh really,' she says.
'yes, very much so, and you know where the best place is to admire such a beauty as yourself?'
'lemme guess, your bedroom?' she says with a sigh.
'i was going to say the dance floor, to this familiar and wonderful song. but what ever you want to do is fine with me?' i smile which causes the thunderbolt to dance for her. she blushes when she smiles and playfully punches my arm.
'oh pam if you knew your own strength, i bruise easily!'
we laugh and head towards a small parquet floor between the snack tables and video games. we dance slowly, in a circle she playfully puts her head on my shoulder. i playfully say, 'here comes the ass rub,' she blushes and says, 'you didn't just say that?'
the music talks about the rose, how every rose has a thorn and as the guitar solo begins we are no longer playing but quiet holding each other, moving in circles.
i close my eyes, breathe deep her perfume, feel the sway of her hair across my neck and chin. i grasp her hand close to my chest and feel the softness of her knuckles, rub with my forefinger across her chewed and rough nails.
pam sighs, she sways and rubs the back of my shoulder holding on, drawing in moving to the rhythm of the song.
when it is over an old woman claps and the pin heads sing over, 'ricker you ready to bowl this fucker down? you can bring your girlfriend.'
i nod and laugh, 'how 'bout it girlfriend, you can eat my fries.'
'that and a beer will get you a 'yes',' she says.
'you have a deal.'
this night i am magnificent. the pin heads are cruising. whenever the maulers get within striking distance i push them away. pam is cheering each roll and her voice must bear the power of the bowling gods for the ball moves true.
'the ricker is on fire,' the pin heads say.
i stare up at the score sheet and see a miracle forming, then stare across the pit to pam and see the miracle that is. pam laughs and i shrug. she drinks her beer and point to my stomach mouthing 'what about me?' she comes over and shares.
in between rolls we are together now. inbetween roles we are cheering on the team, i have my arm about her i have my legs crossed. she is leaning into me, she has her ankles crossed, she is wearing denim jeans, she is wearing a dark shirt underneath a light zipper hoodie and she is carrying a small dark purse.
the strikes continue as the game wears on. i have not missed they say, i am on pace for perfection, they say. i can not focus on the moment for i am lost into her, into this, into us.
'burn 'em down ricker,' she says.
'here comes the fire,' i say and blast through the final frame, the final toss the final strike. the maulers lay defeated as we cheer and clutch at one another. balloons fall from the ceiling as a 300 blinks on the score board. i am awarded a free pizza coupon, i am awarded a plaque, i am awarded a t-shirt with a picture of me against the score board. i pull pam in for the photo.
it is after the game, it is late, it is closing time and we have talked the whole night through. it is closing time and we are on fire for one another.
'who lives closer?' she says.
we say our address, she is closer. we are on our way. i am driving. her hands across me, all over me finally landing against the thunderbolt and stroking the hair down.
we arrive.
i watch from her doorway as she turns the lights of her apartment on. i watch as she moves back towards me, i watch her pull me in and close the door. we are across each other, we are all over each other falling over furniture and pulling at our clothes.
i close my eyes. i smell her. i open my eyes and watch her. i watch and fall in love with her humble body with her small one bedroom apartment. i can see her struggle and poverty. she is making just enough and on her own. she has broken her dad's heart because she won't let him take care of her.
i see the shadow of her body through the light reflecting off her glass frames. her things cute and thoughtful. as we roll and strip, as we make our way towards lusts climax i think of when she bought the salt shakers. i wonder if she was in a relationship, if she was happy alone or was this with friends . i imagine her alone shopping in some retail store, going through things, no one at her side but happy just because all her bills were paid and she had some left over for this.
we are kissing, we are moving we are making love and i am overwhelmed with the idea of her at the store alone. it is beautiful. we climax we surrender.
when we sleep she is cute, innocent, curled against me in a crescent moon. she has her hands tucked beneath her chin and her face is lax. i lay on the bed and try to imagine myself here. there is the answering machine, how many messages has it received from old lover boys and best friends. she has a giant stuffed bean bag chair which is ridiculous and would have to go.
i make my way to the toilet and relieve myself. there is a cabinet full of her things that i do not snoop over. i am sorry when i open the door and find there is not enough room for my things. i look at her shower curtain it is plain see through and would have to change.
i wonder how she can sleep knowing i am here wandering through the apartment, using her toilet maybe secretly thinking of eating her food. she is still in bed, but i can tell she is fake sleeping so i make a joke, 'oh good i can sneek out of here,' to which she pinches my arm and pulls me in.
'i don't think so,' is her sleepy reply.
we lay and dream happy for something found.
dreams are like rivers they snake around only to find themselves back again...
league night and we are rolling at space lanes.
the thunderbolt. that is what i call it. my mustache, as it strikes women dead in their tracks. the slow roll of the bowling ball, from my hand, is the rumble of thunder. i strain, perched one leg stiff long pointed behind me, one arm straight to the side and the rolling arm extended down the lane. i form a perfect 't' as the ball moves towards the center pin i turn around head down, then suddenly, as the ball explodes into the pins i look up into her eyes and 'bam' lightening strikes.
'rick naljev, how are you?' i say extending my non wrist guarded hand.
'misty, fine, good...you knew it was a strike?' she asks.
'i always do.'