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.

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