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When she had awoken that morning, she resisted the light and smiled at the left-over scents of her dream in the back of her throat. She felt his arms like a roaming giant, pressing like an argumentative neighbor, heralding. She licked the taste of him off of her lips and let her eyes fold open like closing a book. The words of his silence marked along the backs of her teeth and she willed him to come back.

Like espresso on the rocks, her comportment was irregularly cold—she hastened past the memories in order to concentrate on anything at all. Commandeering the outside of the marketplace, the park of sorts, selling off the opportunity to the highest bidder, the lines in front of her blurred gently until she could only hear his name. But the beer tasted odd when she tried to induce his undressing down like deja vu.

She couldn’t play.

He was the coach.