Shark in the Water

Marcus hadn't stepped into a pool hall in fifteen years, not since the accident that took his left eye and his livelihood. But here he was, standing in the dim light of O'Malley's, staring at his friend Daniel, who hadn't aged a day since their twenties. Daniel's trademark fedora sat perched on the table between them—a black hat Marcus had once stolen and worn to his sister's wedding, earning him a black eye from his brother-in-law.

"You remember how to play?" Daniel asked, chalk dust swirling around his fingers like the fog of memory.

Marcus picked up the cue stick, his hand remembering what his mind had tried to forget. Muscle memory was a stubborn thing. "Like riding a bike. Or getting kicked in the teeth by life."

The table was worn, its felt surface patched and faded, much like both of them. As Marcus leaned over to break, he caught his reflection in the mirror behind the bar—a glass eye staring back, unseeing and cold. He'd been a shark in those days, the kind who'd hustle college kids out of their tuition money, leaving them feeling grateful for the lesson. Daniel had been his handler, the friend who smoothed over angry fathers and found new marks.

"You know," Daniel said, lining up his shot, "that fight... the one with the bull rider at that bar in Tulsa?"

"The one who claimed I'd cheated him out of three grand?" Marcus sank a solid ball with a satisfying crack.

"He died last week."

The pause stretched between them like a taut wire. Marcus had spent years blaming that night for everything—his limp, his eye, his failed marriage. But the truth was, he'd already been drowning long before that bull-sized man had smashed a pool cue over his head.

"I heard you're sober now," Marcus said, watching Daniel line up a difficult bank shot. The hat remained on the table, a third player in their game.

"Five years next Tuesday."

"And you never called."

Daniel missed his shot. The ball rattled in the pocket and stayed out. "You were the one who disappeared, Marcus. Changed your number. Moved. I looked, you know. Every time I saw a fedora in a thrift store, I wondered."

Marcus stood over the table, the eight ball winking at him from the corner pocket. All these years, he'd thought Daniel was the one who'd abandoned him. That drunk, unreliable friend who couldn't be trusted. But the truth was messier, as it always was. Marcus had been running from himself, and everyone else had been left behind in his wake.

"Game point," Marcus said softly.

"Take it," Daniel said. "You always did."

Marcus didn't take the shot. Instead, he set down his cue and picked up the fedora, placing it on his head. It still fit after all these years. "Next round's on me. And Daniel—I'm sorry."

Daniel's smile was tentative, like dawn breaking. "About time. Now rack 'em."