In theory, you knew tennis season was coming up.

Art talked about it all the time, since the first time you went out with him you knew just how important it was to him.

What you hadn't anticipated was Tennis Art.

This was not your boyfriend.

Your boyfriend ran to class if it meant five more minutes in bed with you. Your Art was ever attentive, always touching you in some way, always initiating something.

This man was up before the sun, his side of the bed cold by the time you woke up. Tennis Art came back late, did his homework, and barely brushed his teeth before passing out distinctively on his half of the mattress.

You tried, damn you tried. New pajama sets, candles lit when you could see his location getting closer, fresh sheets and a fresh shave.

It was always 'homework', or 'shower', or 'early practice'. You didn't know who took your Art and replaced him with some boy with blonde hair, but it was starting to get to you.

Not even a month ago you would be having to decline yet another round. Now, it was like he'd become this sexless ball-hitting machine. Cool, polished, mechanical.

You missed the devotion.

But here he comes again. God, his outfits got fratty during season.

You were posted in the living room, new set on, hair done, trying harder than you'd ever had to with Art. And here he came, tossing his bag on the couch before going back to the bedroom, like you were a plank of wood.

You just don't understand.