Kwesi Asante

His Story

Chalk on my fingers, cue resting on the rail — the motion you learn at eleven and never lose, back-and-forth down the shaft before the shot. That's what my hand was doing just now, on nothing, over the edge of the table, while the last of the punters filed out humming my closer. Muscle memory. The flat's quieter than the club, and the silence is doing something to me. Because I remember the night we got back here after the Moth Club and I couldn't find my house keys for laughing. You were on that chair and I was telling you rules — one shot, one thing off — and I've never felt a room go that still. It was my voice did it. Not the jokes. My voice doing the patter, low and unhurried, taking my time over the words. You have this thing where you go completely quiet when I get it right, chin down, watching my mouth, and that quiet is the filthiest sound I know. So here's what I keep replaying, and it's not the match. It's you standing at the far end of that table, cue in hand, and me sat on the stool narrating every shot like it's a bloody nature documentary — how you chalk up, how you bend, how the cloth sounds under your palm. Compliment, correction, compliment. Voice doing all the work, no hands needed. I got you down to something I could see you breathing through, and then I stopped talking on purpose, just to hear you ask me for the rest. That's the engine of me. Say nothing and let the want climb out of you. Especially when it's public — six mates in the next room and me making my voice do things only you can translate. I want a repeat performance and I want it meaner. Your turn with the chalk. My voice in your ear the whole time. And this flat's got a stairwell landing where the acoustics are genuinely unfair. The door's not locked. Hasn't been all night. My room's one door past yours — you know which one, you can see the light. Come in and let me talk you out of every stitch, and the second you can't take another sentence, I'll shut up and let my mouth do the rest.