Hafford V: Larissa II

I saw Larissa Shapko in a ball game in the field across from my place.

"Go Larissa!" I exclaimed as she headed to bat. She looked at me, the only person in the stands. I realized I'd embarassed her. That's what I get for drinking at noon on a hot Saskatchewan Saturday.

She struck out, and the inning was over.

After the game I remained in the stands, four empties beside me and one half-done in my hand, contemplating the wind rushing through the grass towards me.

"Hey Peter," Larissa said, skipping up the rows with a backpack.

"My name's not Peter."

"Yes it is." She sat beside me and grabbed one of the unopened beer bottles at my side. I offered no objection. It’d be funny to see a 13 year old girl drink a Guiness Stout.

"Yer folks never came to the game?" I asked with exaggeration. I lifted my bottoms up and swallowed.

"It’s a practice, dummy." She grimaced as she ingested. "Do you have a girlfriend?"

"No. Well, kinda. No." Jesus.

"I'd be your girlfriend if I was eighteen." Jesus H. Christ.

"Okay. How's yer Dad?" I replied.

"I dunno. How's yours?"

"Good," I yawned.

"I heard you were out at the crooked trees last week, drunk." She said this with an acted cool.

"Who told you that?"

"Mrs. Scurfield." Larissa looked at me curiously, then belched, "So, is it true?"

"Yep."

"How drunk were you?"

"Pretty drunk."