“Switch the snooker on…”

She ran her hands through her silky soft hair as she then lit up a fag. We both lay flat out naked on the bed. Knackered.

We had just had a marathon session together and as the smell of smoke wafted over; I reached for the controls and switched on the TV.

There it was. The green felt table in all its glory.

“I didn’t know you dug snooker,” I said, as she lay there drawing on her cigarette. God knows why people are addicted to nicotine. I can’t understand it. The smell. Ugh.

But Liz always lit one after our session. And, I must admit, I had gotten used to it.

We had only been seeing each other three months, on and off. Nothing too serious.  But this was the first time she had revealed to me she dug snooker.

So, I piped, “you played before then?”

In Liz’s house, (I had only been in there a handful of times since seeing her), I never once saw a snooker cue, or anything related to it.

“Yeah, actually, I did, she said. She sat up, and I propped up a pillow. “Were you any good”?

Liz, smiling at the question, thought for a moment. “I could have been,” she answered.

“But then, things happened, and it just melted, ya know…”

“What things?”. I asked. “Things,” she said. “I don’t really want to go there”.

It was 7PM in the evening, and it was getting late. Liz lived in a tiny flat and it wasn’t exactly The Ritz. But it did it for me.

“Are you staying for dinner tonight?” I was messing about on my phone, browsing through the news headlines.

Dinner was a big deal. Women make a big deal of dinner. After seeing them for a while, they expect you to stay for dinner, don’t they?!

“What you got this time? ” I cheekily asked. “Not fish and chips again?”

She reached forward and kissed my neck. My heart was pumping. Just the way she did it, was just, ooooooooh…

“I’ve only got Spag Bol tonight,” as she kept wet kissing my bare neck and chest.

The snooker was still going on in the background, as the sound of the balls echoed the room. The referee had just announced the player was on 55. 

I sat up as she came up for air.

“Spag Bol. Nice. So, who do you dig then? ”

“That John guy is hot,” she remarked.

“What, Maples?”I replied.

“Yeah, oooooooooooh. He’s. Hot.

Liz had a way with men. Her accent, yeah, she had a slight Welsh accent, and it drove me crazy.

We met three months ago. The usual thing, really. She was outside a bar, just about to go in, I was just coming out a wee bit drunk. And, we, err, sort of bumped into each other.

We shared a bacon roll in the local cafe straight away as I was trying to sober up. The rest is history as they say.

She worked in a local restaurant as a waitress. Nothing special, but on the second date she took me there. She got a discount off the boss.

But, when she mentioned snooker just now, I just froze. Christmas had come early. She. Loves. Snooker.

Result.

“We’ll have to go for a game, sometime,” I said.

Liz was getting dressed now. Slipping into a pink silk shirt and some skinny jeans. I dug her.

“Maybe,” she replied. “We’ll see.”

She wandered into the kitchen as I lay on the bed. The snooker was still going.

He had now made a century.

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