Inglewood Courts, Edmonton
Zane was sixteen, moved to Canada from Croatia, was good at basketball and said he was coming right back. Stay at the court, he said, and tell the girls I’ll return in a bit if they come to say hi. Zane was older than you and shirtless. You became angry after an hour and shot the ball like he was watching: every swish tore a hole in his lie. He wasn’t coming back. So you walked away too. The grass in the field was long and fit for cows, the asphalt perspiring like a can of cold Pepsi, streetlights beside the dying mall flickered beatifically when you ordered a holy burger and prayed to something on the way home — hands cloying with sweat, wishing you had someone to lie to, that Zane knew something you didn’t: no one comes to that court after dark.