It’s easy to acknowledge that Art’s very grateful for what he has. Still, having retired from tennis at the ripe age of 33, there really weren’t many things to do besides taking care of Lily every other day and dropping her off at Tashi’s the next.

After the divorce, he’d been sure that his love life would dead for the foreseeable future- and he was okay with that—but Patrick wasn’t.

That’s how he meets you, the two of you sitting across each other in tacky plastic chairs. Art would be lying if he said that he wasn't humiliated in the beginning to be walking into a speed dating event, but Patrick had insisted, and like an idiot, he’d agreed.

“I hope you don’t know who I am,” He chuckles, nervous, like he isn’t a renowned tennis player. You almost roll your eyes—but you only laugh with a soft ‘maybe, maybe not,’ and his shoulders grow lax almost instantaneously.

Your ten minutes start with a buzz.

Exhaling slowly, Art scoots his chair in closer, the corners of his eyes crinkling while his fingers fidget with the tissue paper hearts scattered across the table.

“I’m Art.” Hands are shaken, and coarse skin wraps around your palm, almost suffocating with its warmness.

He’s being disgustingly polite—his smile strained and posture taut.

You might as well just have fun with it at this point.