Tom bent over the table, anchoring his cue in a complex configuration of strong fingers.
“Corner pocket” he barked, the words drowned out by tipsy Brooklynites circling the pocked bar table and chattering over the 80s pop coursing through the stale sweet air.
He took a deep breath and slid a few preparatory strokes, shaking his mind and body free of all tensions straining to interfere with his objective.
Tom closed his eyes, beseeching an indifferent God, and shot. The white ball connected with the black at a precise, impossible angle, sending it home.
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