Wit didn't really like bowling, to be honest. He kept dropping the ball on his foot, he had to keep digging out his glasses to see the pins, he was pretty sure the french fries he bought half an hour ago were giving him indigestion, and how he was even getting the ball down the lane without bumpers was beyond him. He had thought that maybe joining a bowling league would get him something to do with his life other than drinking and hitting on girls half his age, but it wasn't really working. He was usually tipsy every time he showed up so that things seemed like they were more interesting than they really were and the only reason he hadn't been kicked off the team for bad pickup lines was because the youngest girl on his team was fifty.

At least this was something to do every Wednesday night.

Wit had been threatened with expulsion from the bowling alley if he showed up even slightly inebriated again, so today he was painfully sober. Glasses sat precariously on the edge of his nose as he started to finish off the last of his french fry basket, wondering if anyone even really cared that they were on their seventh frame his score was abright, shiny twenty-three. Probably not; that fifty-year-old woman was the head of their bowling team and kept making bizarre and suggestive advances on him, so although Wit predicted that he was going to be physically uncomfortable every Wednesday night of his life he didn't see any threat of getting booted as long as he kept coming to the bowling tournaments sober. Today was just a practice night and although he didn't see the point of showing up for anything that wasn't an actual competition, Wit had especially made sure all of his appointments for the day were before six o'clock. He chewed on a french fry and watched some guy who was twice his age make a strike.

This thirty-five-year-old CutCo. salesman could only presume that the reason they had picked this bowling alley, out of all of the bowling alleys in the world, was because it was on the verge of bankruptcy and had dropped its prices per game drastically. The wear and tear of age and lack of funds was clearly evidenced by the gum-covered console he was sitting at and pretending to be manning (he had no idea how to work it and lied when the others asked him to fix a mistake the computer had made), the black streaks in the lanes, vending machines with only half of their slots filled and the fact his bowling shoes were a size too big because they were out of nines. He vaguely noticed that he was one of few of the people there that hadn't worn their team shirts, but his trust was too firm in the sexual insecurity of some old hag to be bothered to worry about it.

He yawned and counted off the minutes until he could go home and sleep.