Michelle sighted down the cue, calculated the angle and cast a glance at the two banknotes on the side of the table. Her opponent stood resting his cue on the floor with a stance and a smirk she had seen a hundred times. She was snookered; the white, his red and the black in perfect alignment down the centre of the table. Even if she'd had a halfway decent view of the black it would have been a difficult shot.
She placed the rattling pub cue down. They'd tossed for the cues, and she'd lost. He had the only halfway decent cue in the pub. It was still crap, but she had the one that rattled whenever it hit the white; the thread of the screw that connected the two halves was partially stripped, the tip was just a flattened dome of worn plastic that didn't get any better however much you chalked it. Not that they had chalk, but hey, cigarette ash worked quite well, and she could've taken this shot blindfold.
She put down the cue, picked up her pint of lager from the side table, took a swig and returned to the game. She feigned a worried look at the black's position, stood back, squinted at the white and then with a resigned air of desperation ricocheted the white off the side cushion and watched as it hit the black with a satisfying 'chock'. The black started rolling slowly towards the corner pocket leaving the white dead in the middle of the table. It trundled up to the pocket reluctantly and after a moment's hesitation dropped in with a satisfying rumbling sound, followed by a final clunk, as it dropped into a tray deep in the table's innards. She turned, scooped up the notes and with an apologetic nod to her opponent, returned to her table and downed the rest of the lager. You always had to let them think they were winning, she thought to herself, especially against a girl!
It was a rough pub in a seaside town and the visitors that flocked down here in the summer from the big city were flash, arrogant and had money to burn. In a town where the minimum wage was the only wage these smug interlopers were considered fair game.
Occasionally it got a little nasty, the word hustler got bandied about fuelled by the cheap lager that the visitors loved, and the locals depended on. This was Michelle's local and at any given time half a dozen burly regulars could be relied on to deal with any problem, the landlord would be conveniently serving someone in the other bar and the pub's pitiful supply of cues would diminish, as they were used in a more aggressive manner than intended.
She was thirty-two and considered a bit of a loner by her few girlfriends, and just one of the lads by her male friends. Short with a mop of unruly fair hair that she cut herself, she was never seen out of a pair of faded baggy Levis, an old T-shirt, battered leather jacket and trainers. She was pretty, you would realise if you looked close enough, but she made so few concessions to femininity that few ever did. She'd had a couple of boyfriends in the past, but she just never seemed interested in anything but playing pool these days.
Michelle had been divorced now for seven years. It had been messy, acrimonious and she had afterwards retreated into a semi-feral lifestyle of benefits, hustling pool in pubs and going home to frozen ready meals in the tiny flat her lawyer had wrenched from her ex-husband. She spent next to nothing on clothes, makeup or eating out. Her only real luxury was a gym she attended three evenings a week. Her sister lived nearby but they didn't really mix with each other except for the times Michelle would meet with her after the gym, where her sister swam regularly in the adjacent swimming pool. Michelle would freely admit she probably drank a little too much but otherwise she was frugal. She had some savings tucked away, but no real plans on what to spend them on.
She surveyed the row of coins on the side of the table and took on the challengers, losing a few deliberately, massaging egos and complaining that it was bad luck and then winning the ones that counted. An hour later and she'd made enough. Time to go home.
She had grabbed her jacket and was about to leave when Steve walked in.
"Micha... Fancy a game?" he greeted her using the name he knew infuriated her, for some odd reason. This guaranteed the rest of the afternoon would be spent with each of them battling over the pool table for supremacy.
This was her home ground and Steve had been at a distinct disadvantage when he had first started playing here, but he was very good at reading the idiosyncrasies of different tables and was virtually on a par with her now. He was also very good at putting her off her game on crucial shots. When she bent over the table to attempt a difficult pot, he would sit behind her and in a stage whispered comment.
"Difficult angle, nice curves though!"
It would often cause her to miscalculate the shot as she suddenly became aware of her bottom pointing at him. She never really considered herself sexy, but Steve just kept on pressing those buttons. When she attempted to do the same in retaliation, he'd just give a cheeky wiggle and grin back at her.
Today after monopolising the table for most of the afternoon, they'd finished absolutely even, and as they sat down with, yet another pint Steve said in that infuriatingly patronising way that he knew goaded her.
"You know, you're pretty good... for a girl!"
She'd known this was coming and just looked straight into his eyes and said in a quiet, slightly embarrassed voice.
"You played very well today, but I'm not at my best when, you, know it's, er, that time of the month"
It wasn't, but she enjoyed the confused and mortified look on his face, with even the hint of a blush creeping across his cheeks
"Oh, sorry, must be difficult...." He mumbled
"Uncomfortable at times" She'd added, enjoying seeing him squirm
"I suppose..." He started, and before she could be bothered to hear what he supposed, she decided to go in for the kill
"Especially when arrogant twats make sexist comments about my arse!"
He'd spluttered into his pint, and she'd just grinned at him and said.
"It's ok, we have towels and stuff these days. Personally, I just use folded up pages from the Daily Telegraph!"
"Best place for it!" He had belatedly realised she was winding him up and burst out laughing
She liked Steve. Despite his annoying comment about her backside. It did make her feel just a little warm inside that he noticed and there was always just enough sincerity in his comments, however flippant he tried to make them sound. He was attractive, a few years younger than her, tall, and lean with a boyish shock of blonde almost ginger hair and a light golden tan.
A few months back she'd sat in the gallery of the local swimming pool watching her sister plough endlessly up and down and Steve had wandered awkwardly in from the showers in a rather tight pair of red speedos. He'd looked quite self-conscious and not at all the cocky git he portrayed when playing pool. He had a fit swimmer's body, and she'd been surprisingly impressed by the power he'd displayed as he dived in, carving through the water effortlessly. The germ of an idea was starting to hatch in her head, and she was suddenly quite overcome with unaccustomed excitement.
"So..." She said trying to sound casual
"You are a bit of a hustler, I'm a bit of a hustler, between us we could pretty much carve this town up." She declared, curious to see his reaction
He looked at her curiously.
"I suppose so, what are you thinking?"
"Well, it's pretty pointless us wasting an afternoon playing each other... We just knock ourselves out and scare off the punters. They won't come near us after they've seen how well we can really play"
She said this in what she hoped sounded like an analytical manner, and that he wouldn't think she was proposing they stuck to separate pubs.
"I suppose so... but I like playing you, it's not always about the money!" He said looking slightly awkward
