rdking.net

A large waitress in yellow stretch pants navigates along the worn, carpet trail in front of the bar rail and incidently brushes dad's beer bottle into the ball return. Patty saw this happen and might have been able to save it if the waitress had been less impassable. Dad, with his longtime preference for the other hand, now somewhere near mid-life, beaten, and currently somewhere near perfect concentration, addressed the gathered pins in a way that was nothing less than sexual. Patty, much like a pin herself, waited for dad to realize the tragedy of a lost beer—and yet, still noticed the odd feeling in her stomach when he momentarily stood mid-lane, that big, black ball drooping Cro Magnon-like from his left hand, and those rented, red bowling shoes with the numeral 10 on the heel; coincidentally, the same pin he leaves standing.