Ankles painted red with clay, we’d pound our chests like timpanis, comparing the shape and depth of our blisters and calluses against each other. Anyone who thought we were twins was victim to our fool, my name escaping your lips from across the court. Bright yellow fuzz we’d find in unexpected places hours after we were finished. We’d laugh loud and ask just how it could’ve gotten there. We’d brace for cold showers on hot mornings underneath the unforgiving sun, for suicides and spider drills and you asking our coach why the conditioning exercises always had such violent names. The day after you quit I saw an actual spider on the lip of the baseline and pounded it flat into the clay with my racket.
