Her mother said, “Do you mean billiards?” She put up both hands to refuse. “No not me. You two go ahead,” she said. “I’ll watch from here.” But Michelle knew that all one could see from where she sat was the corner pocket.

Luis said, “I wait,” and pointed his head toward the other room.

Michelle was about to follow when Aunt Kim said, “Be careful little one.”

Her mother said, “Oh please.” Her lips tumbled over each other and sputtered the words “please.”

Aunt Kim said, “He’s like a fox in a hen house with you two around.”

Her mother said, “And how would you know?”

She sipped more wine and closed her eyes. When she reopened them, she looked at Michelle the way she did when they were in dressing rooms together. She surveyed from head to toe and back again before taking a deep breath. “This one is a mouse,” she said, “She takes after her father.” She spit out the F of the “father,” like a venomous dart, a needle, a sting. “Go on,” she said and shooed Michelle away.

In the billiard room, Luis held out a pool stick at arm’s length. It stood taller than her. Michelle said, “But I don’t know how to play.”

He put the colored balls in a triangle. He hit them hard and they broke apart. He showed her how to do the same. It felt unnatural when he put the cue between her thumb and the knuckle of her index finger.

Luis helped with her alignment. He guided her elbows and positioned her hips. He pushed her parallel to the floor, a palm between the shoulder blades, sometimes a little more. She giggled and he scolded. She was nervous and he was all nerve. The wooden buttons of his shirt dug in her back.

When only the eight ball was left, he unwrapped himself and said, “OK, I watching you.”

Although she had memorized his instructions, she would stiffen each time she bent over the table. What would her mother think if she could see her now? Taking on these poses in front of a man? Michelle went to the far end of the room. She spied around the corner and watched her mother doing a shot with the hostess and Aunt Kim. The three women made faces like they’d tasted bitter-melon.

The other patrons in the pool room had disappeared in the dark. Luis sat beneath a beer sign, his head against the wall. From the shadows he called out, “What, you no like to play?” Beneath the red light he was headless. He was a bright white outfit. One hand clenched around the bench. The other hand wrapped around the neck of a beer bottle.

She missed the shot again and again. “Sorry.” She blushed.

“No,” he said, “no, you are good estudiante, continue.”