Conversations with a blue ball

Smack-ting-thud.

The little blue ball flies off one of the stones in the chimney and ricochets around the living room. A lamp shudders at its passing, until gravity decides to put an end to the projectile’s merry romp.

The boy watches dispassionately. At length, he walks over and picks the missile up again. He contemplates the sphere in his hand. Blue. Bright blue. Not sky-blue. Too rich for sky-blue. The color blue that you only see when a lollipop-maker is trying to convey the flavor of raspberry. Candy blue.

Smack-thunk-rustle.

The boy cocks his arm and launches it again. The stones send it off on another random adventure. For whatever reason, it ends up not far from his feet. He stoops to retrieve it.

Damn it.

Smack-thud.

So fucking futile. No way out of this fucking situation.

Smack-whizz-

He rears back and throws the ball with all of his strength at a particularly flat stone. The rebound brings it not two feet from his head. A hand shoots out instinctively, arresting the ball’s progress in mid-flight.

So she wants me to be honest?

The hand remains where he left it.

She’s unhappy that I don’t trust her? Well, god damn it, it’s not a matter of trust.

Smack-thump.

The ball, after a sharp lob, lands among the laundry. The boy looks unhappily at the pile. In a few seconds, he pulls himself together enough to trudge over.

It’s a matter of maintaining emotional stability. Of hanging on to some slim connection.

The ball seems to have burrowed into the stack of clothing.

I don’t think I could take being rejected again. Once, out of the blue, was bad enough. How could I take it if she directly rejected me when I asked for a second chance?

Discovery continues to be politely declined by the rubber pellet.

Damn it, where is that ball? It’s blue, for Christ’s sake!

A small aquamarine flash appears under the pajamas. Without fanfare the boy unearths the sphere. He stumbles over to the couch and sits down heavily.

Is it worth her to tell her? Does she want to hear the truth from me that badly?

Knock-thud.

The ball takes off for the ceiling, and returns to the floor after a short visit. After some tired consideration, the boy leans forward to pick it up again.

Does she really want to hear what I was thinking when we sat on the couch together last weekend? Does she want to know how much, how badly I wanted to be able to kiss her again? How painfully I wanted to be able to touch her arm without being afraid that she would slap my hand away?

Slam-knock-thud.

The question is, I guess, is she happy with how this turned out? So we see each other less, that’s fine. So it’s less intense. I can deal with that.

Slam-ting-thud.

But is she really happy with no longer having someone she could be sure of turning to? Does she mind that she’s scared me away from confiding in her more firmly than she could ever have guessed?

Does she want me to trust her enough to tell her this?

Thud.

The ball misses the beam, and goes sailing into the next room. The boy stares at it morosely.

He sits silently for a minute with his eyes closed.

Time, after a moment’s consideration, continues to pass.