on a Friday, and we’re inside a deserted Brooklyn dive with sooty walls and dull red lights. “Like, how could I get that close, that often?” “Sometimes I feel like I miss on purpose or something,” Alex says. We’re playing a doubles match against two tipsy, smiley men named Oliver and Manuel Alex has yet to sink a ball, and despite making a couple of decent shots, I somehow manage to knock the eight in out of turn, losing us the game.
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