The TV glows in the corner,
the only light not neon
or too warm to notice.
It’s been back-and-forth,
all goddamn night.
We’re tied now.
Nervous faces
barely visible in the shadows.
Hands fidgeting with bottles, coasters,
lighters, straws,
hang nails,
raw cuticles.

On the final inbound
the clock malfunctions.
For a few seconds nobody knows
nothing they’re doing matters.
For a moment,
it’s all meaningless.

A man staggers up,
stands on the footrest of his stool,
and starts yelling:
What is happening in time?
Time is not moving!
He crashes back onto
his stool and continues,
more quietly now:
Where is time?

The whistle blows.
Unsure voices fill the bar.
The refs go to the scorer’s table.
Players mill around the benches.
The coaches are called over,
nobody looks satisfied,
but they never are.
How could they be?

The players walk back on the court.
One more play, again.
The whistle blows.
The ball is inbounded.
The clock runs.

The man on the stool mumbling
Oh, thank God…
Thank fucking God.

***

Brenden Layte is a writer, linguist, and editor of educational materials. His work has previously appeared in places like X-R-A-Y, Lost Balloon, and Pithead Chapel. He also won The Forge Literary Magazine’s 2021 Flash Fiction Contest.