they call it beer pong in college

We're too mature to be playing games but we're polite about it. You take a bow of silence and a curtsy rack so that when you shoot and the ball bounces back, no one says anything. You're supposed to shoot again, but not lefty because apparently you're the guy who plays by the rules. You remain composed and somehow let me know, without saying a word, that you easily could have gotten balls back by now but decidedly chose not to. You were too busy sneaking glances at me, letting them linger just a little too long, like my perfume when you said I smelled good; you didn't quite regret saying it so much as you knew that it was a sexy thing to say to someone you couldn't have sex with but can still remember seeing naked. And I've been heating up and now I'm on fire and I have one cup left and don't have to go behind the back because I’m the girl who’s awful at games. So by the time enough awkward and miserable moments have gone by for each of us to look like we don't know what we're doing, I go for it in such haste that you don't have time to put up a fight. But with my unusual luck, I release the ball the split second before the table decides to give out; curiously, neither of us suggest refilling the cups. And as you're finding paper towels to mop up the spill, I notice that no one was watching us play anyway.