When you are an aficianado of tennis style and you take pride in the elegant lines you make as you reach for a distant forehand, displaying the gleaming white and crisp cut of your Lacoste shirt, when you lovingly caress the topspin on your whipped crosscourt forehand and mop your brow with a tailored wrist cuff, when you are this kind of person, it is with some distaste that you play an opponent who doesn’t really consider his outfit, who pats his service over the net, instead of winging it across in a fierce trajectory. You have seen how the champions bounce the ball three times before commiting to a first serve, how they tap the sand from their tennis shoe, how they scoop the ball up to their open palm with one deft trick of the racket, whereas your opponent just waits there on the other side of the net, flat-footed and impassive, as though waiting for a bus, and just prods it back in an ignominious and shapeless arc, though, when he gets the chance, he wallops it.. And then you get home after the match and have to admit to your fiancee, who has already lovingly prepared your dry martini, that you humiliatingly lost to you lacklustre opponent. Your fiancee can hardly believe it. She is confused. She is livid. She sees you in a new light. But, she almost says, he was wearing denim shorts. You are not the man she thought you were, and maybe, this is not the world she thought it was. Now she even eyes her martini with distrust.

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