The tennis racket had been strung and restrung, staying faithfully within our family for decades past and decades onwards.
The tennis racket became an extension of my soul-spun arm, together, it and I, the most old-school of cyborgs.
The tennis racket had an unexpected weight to it, but then it had been made by a master, and there was quality in those extra grams.
The tennis racket took up home in my palm, for all those hours spent learning the craft, it stuck with me no matter what.
Keep track of your favorite writers on Descriptionari
We won't spam your account. Set your permissions during sign up or at any time afterward.