Thursday, May 22, 2003

I write to you, gentle reader, at a very late hour, my mind filled with tiredness, my belly full of food from a midnight run to Omega Restaurant. As this school year draws to a close–a final close for me, please realize–tradition dictates that I wax metaphysical about friends, advice given, advice taken, opportunities lost, and chances seized.

I have thoughts on all of these things, but I won’t go into them now. It would simply take too long and it would bore you. Besides, it would be uncouth for a CEO of a major media powerhouse to drone on so.

Instead, I believe the tennis I played with Intan this past Thursday demands articulation. For me, the outing was a recent condensation of all things collegiate and passing: the weather, spectacular and crisp; the game, enjoyable and spontaneous; silly, impromptu grins all around. And when the 90 minutes passed, we agreed to one final round, five balls each. Ten balls probably shouldn’t have lasted very long, gentle reader, but sheer joie de vivre–tinged with that sad nostalgia popular for seniors at this time of the year–extended the round almost indefinitely.

The sun lowered and the wind grew more biting, but it didn’t matter. I hit a few, she hit a few, and we picked up balls that had dropped “conveniently” close by and not too near the net. Then the inevitable question arrived.

“Last ball?” she asked.

“Sure,” I answered.

The last ball turned into two, three, and the sun continued to set. And when the game finally ended, I left feeling exhilarated yet sad. The music hasn’t ended just yet, thankfully, and I think I shall savor the last few refrains fully and calmly.