ABSTRACT
Note: In midnight tennis each player gets three serves rather than the usual two. You are tired of this maudlin country club and you are tired of his insults. You'd like to pummel his forehead with a Schweppes bottle in the sauna, but instead you agree, this time, 249to meet him at midnight on the tennis court. When you get there you can't see him but you know he is waiting on the other side of the net. You consider briefly his reputation. You have first serve so you run toward the net and dive over it. You land hard on your face. It's not a good serve: looking up you can barely see his white shorts gleam in the darkness. You get up, go back to your side of the net and dive over again. This time you slide to within a few feet of him. Now you can make out his ankles, the glint of the moon on his white socks. Your last serve is the best: your chin stops one inch from the tip of his sneakers. Pinheads of blood bloom across your chest. You feel good crawling back to your side again. Now it is his turn and as he runs toward the net you know he's the fastest man you've ever seen. 250His dive is of course flawless. He soars by you, goes completely off the court and onto the lawn, demolishing a few lounge chairs. To finish, he slides brilliantly onto the veranda. You go up and sit beside him and somehow you don't feel too humiliated: he is still unconscious. At least now you know why he is undefeated. It's his sensitive, yet brutal, contempt. With a similar contempt you pour a gallon of water on his face. He still has two more serves—
