Jay sat at the bar watching as his quarter drew closer to the end of the pool table’s rail, signifying when he was next to face whoever won the previous game. 

But that was his ex, Cody ruling the threadbare field of felt and cigarette burns under The Monopole’s yellowed hanging lights. The ones he always somehow managed to bang his head on. And within whose glow he first saw Cody. And then hit his head again.

Thus far tonight, she’d already whipped five guys in 9-ball, each shot circuitously reconnoitered, like a golf pro reading a green at Augusta. She made them all, but it took forever. He hated these games.

Every time Cody leaned over the rail to stroke the cueball, her gorgeous bottom turned to the bar, she’d peek over her shoulder at Jay with The Look. The one that’d always made him forget how to breathe. 

Cody made somewhat quicker work of the guys ahead of Jay, maybe allowing them one shot before she ran the table. She took five bucks off each loser.

She was up fifty dollars for the night.

“Who’s next?” she proclaimed above the din of three TVs, the sound system and a raucous table of twenty-somethings who hooted her every sinuous bend. And above the thumps of Jay’s heartbeat. 

She knew who was stepping up next.

While Jay pulled his favorite cue from the wall and Cody racked the balls for their match, one of those drunks grabbed Cody’s butt. 

“Hey, knock it off, asshole. Look but don’t touch,” she said, whirling to place her back to the table. Jay didn’t think her tone sounded particularly frightened, though not quite teasing, either.

“Why don’t you give them boys a chance and join us, baby,” the drunk said as his friends hooted even louder. He clamped onto Cody’s arm and she gave out a loud “Jay!” that registered somewhere between a plea and an order.

Jay brought his cue down across the drunk’s forearm with a “crack” and the rowdies fell upon him like a beer-scented Adirondack avalanche. Prying him from the melee with her $300 cue stick, Cody half-dragged the dazed Jay to her Toyota and raced down Cornelia to Broad and across the Saranac to Macomb Street, where she kept her flat.

“C’mon up with me, Jay. You need to get your bruises looked at,” she said. “I just knew you still… C’mon, let me take care of you.” 

Jay winced as Cody touched his cheek. 

And then, The Look.

Jay wasn’t sure if he’d cracked a rib or forgotten how to breathe again. Lying there in Cody’s room that night, he wondered why he always let this happen. It wasn’t so much that she eventually always won, she was inevitable, inexorable. Yeah, he had to admit, and lovable. 

He turned to look at her angelic face, felt the warmth she shared with him and figured maybe he was a winner, too. He just hated these games.

Wonder of wonders! Here’s the 500-word first draft of what eventually was whittled down to a 250-word tale for Siobhan Muir’s weekly Thursday Threads challenge. Writers had to make a story using the phrase, “He hated these games.” Photo by Engin Akyurt on Unsplash.