A narrow strip of wall

You find it—a narrow strip of wall against the stadium's outer flank, where the concrete radiates stored heat and the wind whips around the corner in sharp, unpredictable gusts.

You can feel it, the slow evaporation, the coolness that precedes dryness. It is the only mercy the afternoon has offered.

You count the seconds. Then the minutes.

Each gust lifts the hair at your nape, and you startle, certain someone has arrived, certain a hand is about to descend on your shoulder. But it's only air. Only the wind, indifferent to your shame, doing its silent work.

A couple walks past, twenty meters away, their laughter carrying. You shrink.

The stain is fading. You check, tilting your hips, craning your neck. The dark delta has receded to a damp archipelago, islands of moisture on a pale fabric sea. Soon. Soon it will be indistinguishable from perspiration. But not yet.

Twenty minutes. It feels like a season, like a prison sentence, like the entire circumference of your life compressed into the space between heartbeats. The wind teases the fabric. The sun presses down.

You think about the swimsuit, that pink betrayer, still damp against your skin.

The wind gusts. A loose thread on your shorts trembles. But finally you are dry enouth to leave your spot.

In the stadium, the game rolls past, a colorless rush. You see only Christina, how her body strains under the jersey, how she laughs, how she looks at you during the warm-up—a brief, searing look that instantly makes your pants feel tight. Her team wins. The girls' roaring sounds like mockery.

You sneak into the empty locker room, the smell of disinfectant and sweat fills your nose. The door clicks shut. Silence. Your eyes dart across the bench. Tops, skirts, shorts. Underwear, bras, panties. Some folded, others tossed. A few plain, but many daring: lace too thin, fabric sheer, cuts high and brief. The careless intimacy of it, the silent provocation, sends a wave of heat straight to your face. Your cheeks burn.