He writes the ground rules for their little
game on her legs with shower gel, cupping his
hands to stop the water washing them
away.
"Half-moons," she says, about his hands.
"Bra cups," he laughs in return.

When he's finished, he grabs her waist instead, and the
letters turn into foam. He knows she'll remember.
(This is nothing. You may not fall in love.)

Half-time has come and gone, when she sat on the
wooden floor of a two-man court and considered
an attempt at victory. "Forfeit," she said, finally,
when he began to laugh, and there were no 's'-es to slur.

In the after-fuck atmosphere, he lights up a cigarette.
"I think I love you," she says, coughing.
He doesn't look at her, but
holds up two fingers for foul.