Eight Ball by Claudia Emerson It was fifty cents a game beneath exhausted ceiling fans, the smokeâ€™s old spiral. Hooded lights burned distant, dull. I was tired, but you insisted on one more, so I chalked the cueâ€”the bored blueâ€”broke, scratched. It was always possible for you to run the table, leave me nothing. But I recall the easy shot you missed, and then the way we both studied, circlingâ€”keeping what you had left me between us.