Magic 8.

We know better than to be here.

We’ve been here before; we know what happens.

I know better than to take another drink,

but I accept it anyway—

another blackberry sour, you devilish thing.

You’re racking up the table for another game,

but I already know we won’t finish it.

Or rather—if I have my way—we won’t.

I don’t care who calls stripes or solids,

or where the chalk ends up,

so long as my back ends up on that felt,

I’ll have won.

And judging by the look in your eye

as you turn back toward me,

I’d say the feeling’s mutual.

Your hand drags across the soft tabletop.

Muscle holds memories better than anything,

and I see it, that brief tension in your arm

as you lean over the mahogany edge,

remembering what it was like

to climb over that barrier not so long ago.

You toss me the chalk and line up the cue ball.

I finish my drink.

You’ve always said I’m hard to keep up with,

but tonight, I’m already two steps ahead.

My cue is slim walnut with a pale ash inlay—

high contrast, like us.

Yours is cherry burl, tried and true,

the color of temptation itself.

You down your glass and signal the bar for another round

as I take the break.

Hours blur under the hum of the jukebox.

Four drinks later, your jacket’s gone,

and your arms keep finding their way around me.

You act like I’ve never done trick shots before,

guiding my hands down the cue,

your hands down my waist.

The bartender knows the deal:

leave us to play,

we’ll lock up behind us.

The clack of resin becomes a pulse—

eight left, then five,

then only black and white

rolling around and around,

chasing each other endlessly on the felt.

That’s when the real game begins.

I slalom behind my cue, backing away slow,

while you circle the table, begging me closer.

“All I’m asking for is a dance,” you say—

"it’s our song playing, after all,"

how could we not?"

But I keep denying you,

making you chase me,

your own little Magic 8 Ball

loose in the world.

Will you get the girl?

Ask again later.

Will we or won’t we?

Reply hazy, try again.

But of course, I already know the real answer.

It is decidedly so.

Without a doubt.

You may rely on it.

Because the question was never just about tonight.

It’s never been just the pool table,

the chalk, or the bar lights dimming out.

It’s about every time we’ve done this dance—

every round, every game,

every lifetime.

For better or for worse,

to infinity and beyond.

And if I were to ask you right now,

I think you’d agree:

Signs point to yes.