Enjoying Court Time in Paradise

Quinn McIlhone

Our first day on the island

you are laissez-faire

toward my drinking.

We revert to the pattern

of the café on Crescent

as I drink four glasses

to your one.

I pour you a glass

of wine with dinner

but you refuse a second.

Go for it, you say,

sliding the bottle

toward me when I hesitate,

it’s your holiday.

Your modesty makes you

only more exclusive,

but I know what it means

to a woman like you

to be written off altogether.

By the ocean

we watch girls in bikinis

strut along the strand

while you lie quietly

beside me in a one-piece

that covers the scar

on your midriff.

You don’t need the spotlight,

happy to chat in shade

as beach queens parade by,

but crank it up at dinner

in a frock that delineates

your perfect shoulders and bust.

I know what words to use

when we return to the cottage.

We play tennis,

a rare treat because I have

ambitions for my game

that preclude playing

with a novice.

I have no hitting partner

on the island

so you are enlisted

and handed a racquet.

The setting is bucolic.

Goats wander about grazing

on rolling green hills

that surround the facility,

the sun perches overhead

and bathes the court

in seaside light,

pleasing the tourist in me

but not the would-be tennis star.

Strange to see you

on the other side of the net,

somehow out of context

in an athletic setting,

but it becomes apparent

you could be a fine player

with your stature,

mobility and focus.

When I hit you set-up balls,

you tap them back

with the regularity

of a metronome,

but I’d rather play

an advanced opponent

to develop my game.

I don’t tell you

about your potential

or try to excite you

with a future in the sport,

giving reluctant compliments

so you don’t get gung ho.