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Prologue
One hour to closing.
At the back table, the old regular said, “All right.”
That made six times tonight.
I — So Tamano (thirty, virgin, forever B class, currently a cue ball) — was on the front table.
Tonight the young woman wore a bordeaux cardigan and slim jeans.
The young guy, the usual white shirt.
On the wall hooks, a navy jacket and a beige trench coat.
Side by side again tonight.
Nine-ball.
Race to five for him, race to four for her.
Four–three.
Each of them, one rack away.
Chapter One: Too Close
Her turn.
The 8 was right in front of me.
Not even two balls’ width away.
The 9 sat beyond it, near the cushion.
A little follow, and I would land right on the 9.
She struck me just above center.
The same stroke that worked last week.
Tock.
The 8 dropped.
I crept forward just a little, and stopped.
The 9 was still far away.
“Huh?” she said.
Right after a hit just above center, I’m still sliding.
My surface isn’t spinning fast enough yet to keep up with my forward speed.
The cloth rubs against me, adding topspin little by little.
It takes distance before I’m truly rolling.
The 8 was closer than that.
I hit it before my topspin had finished growing.
Follow can only give back as much topspin as I’m carrying at the moment of contact.
…Why do I know even this?
Apparently reincarnation makes you weirdly good at physics.
What a nuisance.
On a close ball, the roll doesn’t arrive in time.
Chapter Two: A Little Higher
The young guy closed out the match.
Before packing up, the young woman set up that position again.
The 8, right in front of me.
The young guy leaned in from behind for a look.
With the hand holding the chalk, he pointed at the upper part of me.
“A little higher. Here.”
Close.
His finger is close to me.
No. Close to her.
I can’t even tell anymore which of them I’m supposed to be jealous of.
The instant a level cue hits me, I take in two kinds of momentum.
Momentum to move forward, and momentum to spin.
Strike me dead center, and there’s no spin.
The higher I’m struck, the more topspin I get.
And there is one height where the two balance exactly.
Two-fifths of the radius above center.
On my body, about 1.1 centimeters.
Hit me there, and my forward speed and the spinning speed of my surface match from the very start.
In theory, I never slide at all.
Shff.
I rolled from the very spot where I was struck.
Tock.
The 8 drops.
A stop, then grip… and forward.
Right in front of the 9.
“There it is,” she said, turning around.
The young guy nodded.
Something between the two of them seemed to match up.
Somewhere that had nothing to do with me.
Back when I was B class, I figured follow just meant hitting high, more or less.
I never once measured how high.
1.1 centimeters.
And it was right there the whole time.
“Eight years, and what was I even looking at…”
Keep the cue level, strike two-fifths of the radius above center, and the cue ball rolls from the very start.
The young guy knew that spot from the very start.
Epilogue
A little before closing.
The young woman closes her cue case.
The young guy closes his, too.
Zzzip.
…At the same time?!
The lights go down.
One by one, the customers head home.
The old guy went home.
The young woman and the young guy went home together.
Once again, I was the only one left on the table.
“1.1 centimeters, huh…”
In the darkened pool hall, I just stayed still.
— Will my story go on? Or won’t it?
That may depend… on all of you.
Next time (if there is one): A new shaft comes out of the young woman's cue case. The same as the young guy's...?! The reincarnated life of So Tamano, cue ball, goes on... maybe.
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