She was errorless, that young, lean girl. When we'd both had enough, we'd sit on the bench and she'd make shapes in the sand with her spikes as we'd talk. Maybe an hour or more, just the two us. I came to know the smell of her sweat. There's something about sitting on the bench of a softball field, with the lights on, late at night, when it gets cool in the summer, watching bugs hurling themselves like lunatics around the lights in the outfield.
Nothing really makes sense.
Everything is different. Everything's in your eyes. And it was on that same field I lost it. I mean really lost it. Then three days later I reached down for no known reason, sifted my fingers through the warm, loose sand and found it, there in front of the bench where we'd sat those nights.