Strike

We all look like clowns. The waft of spray-on cleanliness, sticky carpet, the smell of fried. There's something so constructed about the sound of crashing pins, like it was made on a computer. "Another strike," someone says. The air isn't coming out the vent, the balls aren't anything other than black. Most of the people here are wearing name tags and drinking wine, not playing at all. They don't all seem to be the same age, although maybe they are, their clothes are all over the place. They aren't not having a good time. "I like the way you swing you foot behind," someone says, and another one says "twinkle toes." There is something about the crashing of pins. The sound bite. I wish I knew how to keep score.