The Break

– This is my (sexy) take on Wimbledon

The Break

On a sweaty Sunday in June I broke him.
Our twinned tanned limbs
on the flat frying pan surface of Court One.

Only the taut, white barrier divides us
his hazy silhouette shimmers before me.
A mirage.
The sheen of moisture on his vulnerable upper lip mirroring my own.

Our guttural grunts collide –
all that penetrates the utter calamity of absolute silence.

He extends, a gargantuan clash of strength
reaching beyond the point of no return.
The slow arc of the ball
descends into battle.

I answer, my screaming muscles
above the catcalls of the baying crowd
stirring me on
to finish the kill.

Again, I serve.
You could hear a pin


On a sweaty Sunday in June
I broke him.