Cin City

Louisville

"Hey." He didn't look up; so I tapped the toe of my not so expensive boot against the sole of his shoe. His expensive-looking shoe. And when he did look up he didn't say anything. And not saying anything meant that I had to. Because I wanted this not to be easy. I needed it not to be. "I know you."

"You do?" He looked me over from my boots up. A proper look, not a glance. And not like I was some crazy person – so that was something. When he got to my hair the corner of his beautiful mouth curled at a hint of a smile. My hair wasn't for everyone or most of the time for anyone. Hell, it wasn't even for me. But I'd said that I would if someone else would and that someone else had gone and done it, so I had no choice. Quiet is one thing. Spoil-sport is quite another. No one likes a spoil-sport.

"Yeah, I do."

I had seen him from some way off; sitting at the end of one of those rows of seats that airports always seem to have. I'd been counting gate numbers in the hope that he wasn't sitting at my gate. And it was my gate. So I had to say something because the conditions I'd set for myself (from when I first saw him) had been met. My gate. He's at my gate. It's time to speak, time to be heard. I had given up on silence. Or at least given up on the idea that easy worked for me. It hadn't worked the last time I saw this man.

That this was a departure lounge, that there were people sitting about waiting for flights and others trudging in waves towards baggage claim, that I had French Draids for a hairstyle – those things would have mattered – most times. They still did. What I was doing was wrong. It felt wrong. Too late though; he was at my gate and I had no choice. Too late for the fact that when I said I knew this guy I was stretching things a bit more than a bit. Although he did remember me. He did. I know he did. Something about him, some micro recognition across his beautiful face that gave it away.

"Where from exactly?"

"You know where. Lexington. I saw you."

"You saw me?"

My hair confirmed it. His reaction today was identical to a week ago. Identical. No one else had hair like mine. Not any of the beautiful people he was hanging around with that day. Not any single person in the entire town of Lexington as far as I could see. Still, I could understand why he wouldn't want to admit remembering me. I was so very nondescript. Not only that but a shitty person had given my look a shitty name: I was provincial, so very provincial, and always would be. Not even my fucked up hair could change provincial to Provençal. And I didn't mind that – not really – not any more. I was who I really was. I always would be. And being me is only as hard as I let it.

"You watched that first-round game. A friend of mine got beaten by a cheating slapper."

"And who was this friend of yours exactly?"

Did he really have to say exactly? He knew who she was. He'd cheered that slapper. I told him my friend's name. I told him exactly who my friend was. Well, when I say friend... Sometimes I stretch things more than a bit. I had an English teacher back at high school (who was a fuckin' bitch); she said that when I spoke I tended towards hyperbole. She said that because she thought I wouldn't know what hyperbole was. I knew. I knew more than her. I knew she was a bitch even if she didn't want to admit that fact to herself. I knew because I watched her. I saw how she treated students she didn't care about. It didn't worry me how I was treated because I knew school was temporary. The other kids, the kids from shit homes; for them school was a sanctuary. And to be treated like shit in your only sanctuary by some bitch teacher...

"Luci Wijn is a friend of yours?" The accusation in a single word. The inquisition. Friend of yours?

I could be friends with a player of her quality. I wasn't yet. But I could be. Besides, Luci had been so very nice to me, and I can tell the genuine article. She had said that she hoped we would meet again. She even said that we complimented each other. Maybe we could be friends; maybe. It would have helped if I had said something to that chair umpire when I had the chance. The fact that I hadn't, it followed me and Luci for the whole week – through our good-byes – and even for my shuttle ride to this very airport. And here, right here; still following me. My doubles partner had been cheated. This guy had cheered for that cheat. So he was a cheat too, a cheat by association. And I had done nothing.