Ball of Joy

She remembers the night they met at the ball. He asked her to dance by the Gatsbian pool. She remembers the sight of women who tear their clothes off to dive in, and she leaves the thought of him for one of purifying water, as she rips off her string of gaudy beads. Sweat collects on his brow in angry beads as he strikes at a painted, glossy ball. His brains are a sack of amniotic water secreting through his glands into a pool and he drowns in his mind, which leaves room only for a single, lonely tear. Her heaving womb appears to tear through her crop shirt- her blood in beads gushes and drops like leaves- a release of tension- her stress ball drops- bounces- through a game- of pool ? She fears- her bloom will die without water. His turn is over, and he takes a swig of water. The next player strikes, and the fibers of the cue tear the threads of the felt, aqua pool table. The liberated lint forms beads on the moving stick that strikes the cue ball. His heart leaps and he leaves. The plants in her garden have leaves that wither when she forgets to water the earth and give each one a ball of fertilizer, and now she even forgets to tear out weeds that creep into beds and between beads in the ejaculating fountain of her avian pool. He remembers diving into her bottomless pool on the blanket of her lawn abreast feathery leaves. His maddened sweat mirrors her beads, broken, like her emergent water that announced the internal tear making way for the ten-pound, screaming ball. Their voices patter like beads of rain landing on a pool. They can again have a ball together, even if it leaves the white water of her breasts in one, joint tear.