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Prologue
The young woman unzipped her cue case.
Zzzip.
Out came a black shaft.
No wood grain.
It threw back the lights with a dull gleam.
Beside her, the young guy screwed his cue together.
The same black.
The same gleam.
…The same?!
I — So Tamano (thirty, virgin, forever B class, currently a cue ball) — watched it all from the front table.
Tonight the young woman wore a mustard knit sweater and a long black skirt.
The young guy had hung his gray cardigan over a chair, down to the usual white shirt.
At the back table, the old regular was saying, “All right.”
Nine-ball.
Race to five for him, race to four for her.
Three–three.
She was one rack away.
Chapter One: The 8 That Came Back
Her turn.
The 8 was about half a table away.
A position that called for a touch of right english, to bring me around in front of the 9.
She shifted her aim just slightly to the right.
The way she’d always aimed with her old shaft.
Cue held level, she struck me on the right.
Shff.
I went off almost dead straight.
Tock.
The 8 caught the point of the pocket and came back out.
“What?” she said.
Hit me on the right, and I leave a little to the left of the aim line.
That’s squirt.
While the tip is on me, I’m pushing the end of the shaft back to the right, too.
The heavier that end, the less it wants to move.
The less it gives, the more I get shoved sideways.
The deflection is only a tiny angle.
But the farther the cue ball travels, the wider that tiny bit opens up.
Her old wooden shaft was heavy at the end.
She had learned to aim right by just as much as I slipped away to the left.
The new carbon shaft is hollow inside, and light at the end.
I hardly slip away at all anymore.
…Why do I know even this?
Apparently reincarnation makes you weirdly good at physics.
What a nuisance.
The shaft had changed. Only her aim was still set for the old one.
Chapter Two: You Don’t Need to Aim Off That Much
The young guy took that rack.
Four–three.
Before the next rack, the young guy stood behind the young woman.
Two people with black shafts, peering down the same line.
“You don’t need to aim off that much.”
Close.
Even their shafts match. Close.
She brought her aim back and struck me on the right.
Shff.
The instant the tip pushes me, the light end slips smoothly aside.
The force shoving me sideways stays small, and then it’s over.
I ran almost dead straight along the line she aimed.
Tock.
The 8 drops.
Still carrying right english, I turned off the cushion and came around in front of the 9.
“It went in,” she said.
The young guy ran a finger along the end of his own shaft.
It was the face of someone who had chosen the same thing.
The shaft that matches his is the gentlest one on me.
I can’t even tell anymore whether I’m supposed to be happy.
Back when I was B class, I figured I missed with english because I just wasn’t good enough.
I never once thought about how many grams the end of a shaft weighs.
When all along, the one going off line was me.
“Eight years, and what was I even looking at…”
The lighter the end of the shaft, the less the cue ball slips sideways.
She brought her aim back, to the same side as the young guy.
Epilogue
The young woman sank the last 9.
Her fourth rack.
The lights go down.
One by one, the customers head home.
The old guy went home.
Two cue cases of the same length disappeared through the door.
Once again, I was the only one left on the table.
“Light at the end, 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): The young woman calls the young guy by a name I've never heard. His first name. ...His first name?! The reincarnated life of So Tamano, cue ball, goes on... maybe.
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