Strike

The pink Volkswagen Beetle rolled into the parking lot with a soft hum, headlights sweeping briefly across the brick wall of the apartment building before Craig backed neatly into his assigned space. His assigned space. Even now, after the conversation with Aundrea the night before, that idea didn't seem right.

The engine shut off. Silence settled around him. For a moment Craig simply sat there with both hands resting lightly on the steering wheel, sea-green skirt draped over his thighs, high-heeled sandals balanced effortlessly against the floor mat. Exhaustion should've been dragging at him after another full day split between bizarre office duties and pole dance lessons.

Instead, he felt... good.

Loose.

Warm.

Alive.

His muscles still carried the memory of the afternoon workout, but the sharp soreness from yesterday had faded into something softer. Manageable. A pleasant ache rather than outright punishment. Even the towering heels no longer felt like instruments of ****. They felt natural now. Comfortable.

But his day didn't end in a pole dance studio. His mind drifted back to the bowling alley, and despite himself, a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Three hundred. A perfect game.

Craig had bowled for years and never once managed it. Not even close, really. A couple good games here and there, sure, but perfection? Twelve strikes in a row? That belonged to other people. Older guys with custom balls and wrist braces and shirts with flames stitched across the back.

Not him.

And yet tonight it had happened.

The memory still buzzed pleasantly through his system as he climbed from the car, purse slung over one shoulder. Warm evening air brushed against his bare legs while his sandals clicked across the pavement toward the building entrance.

Frank had already been there when Craig arrived at the alley earlier. Beer waiting. Easy smile. Familiar conversation.

How was work?

How's your week been?

You surviving?

Normal things. Friendly things. But not roommate things. That distance lingered underneath every exchange now. Not hostility. Not awkwardness exactly. Just... space. The kind that came from not sharing a life anymore. Separate homes. Separate routines. Separate realities.

And Craig hated it.

The shoe counter had only made the evening stranger.

"What size?" the teenager behind the counter had asked.

"Eleven men's."

No hesitation. No double take. The employee simply disappeared behind the wall shelves before returning with a pair of ridiculous bowling shoes trimmed in glossy red and black leather, complete with thick heels that lifted Craig several inches off the floor.

Not regular bowling shoes. High-heeled bowling shoes. Craig had stared at them in stunned silence while the teenager immediately moved on to helping the next customer.

Apparently that was normal too.

The lobby door clicked shut behind him as Craig entered the apartment building. Up the stairs. Down the hallway. Keys jingling softly as he unlocked the apartment door. The quiet greeted him immediately. No television. No video game sounds leaking from Frank's room. No muffled swearing at hockey highlights. Just silence.

Craig stepped inside anyway, locking the door behind him.

The memory of his amazing bowling game replayed vividly as he crossed the apartment. Standing at the lane in that ridiculous dress and those absurd shoes, feeling every eye in the building gradually turn toward him frame after frame.

Strike.

Then another.

Then another.

At first it had only been Frank cheering. Then the couple beside them had started paying attention. Then the neighbouring lane.

By the seventh frame there'd been a crowd. By the tenth, the entire bowling alley had practically stopped moving.

Craig could still hear it if he thought about it too hard. The applause. The shouting. The crack of pins exploding apart at the end of the lane.

And strangest of all? He'd loved it.

Not the dress. Not the heels. Not the fact that Eros had apparently transformed him into some bizarre hybrid of secretary, homemaker, and exotic dancer.

But the attention? The success? That electric rush when the room focused entirely on him? That part had felt incredible.

Especially after the final throw.

God, that last throw.

Craig could still the feeling of stepping toward the foul line. Tiny deliberate strides. Hips swaying naturally beneath the sea-green skirt while the ball hung loosely from his fingers. The entire alley had gone quiet enough that he could hear the slow roll of the ball itself.

Then...

Strike.

The explosion of sound afterward had rattled the walls. Without even thinking, Craig had spun in celebration, laughing as his skirt flared dramatically around his thighs. The movement had come straight from Melody's lessons. Graceful. Fluid. Showy.

People had cheered even louder for it.

A laugh escaped him quietly as he crossed into the kitchen.

"Still can't believe that happened," he muttered.

Three hundred. Perfect. And yet the high from it faded quickly once the silence of the apartment settled around him again. Because no matter how loud the bowling alley had been, eventually he'd still come home alone.

A roommate was better than a perfect game.

Craig sighed and loosened the strap of his purse from his shoulder. He should probably get changed. Maybe shower. Maybe collapse face-first into bed and pretend tomorrow wasn't coming. Instead, his feet carried him down the hallway. Toward Frank's old room.

The door waited there silently. Craig stared at it for a second before reaching for the handle. Swinging it open, he noted that the room beyond wasn't empty anymore.

"No."

The word slipped out immediately. A brass stripper pole rose from floor to ceiling directly in the centre of the room. Three miniature spotlights had been mounted near the corners, angled inward toward the pole itself. A compact Bluetooth speaker rested against the wall beside a yoga mat and a pile of resistance bands.

Craig just stood there, horrified.

"No. No no no."

The room smelled faintly of lavender and polished metal.

Then Melody's voice floated back into his memory from the end of that afternoon's lesson.

"Great work today, Craig. to practise at home. That's really going to reinforce your learning."

At the time he'd assumed she'd meant stretches. Maybe posture work. Not this.

Defeated irritation flooded through him all at once. Craig slammed the door hard enough to rattle the frame, then turned sharply on his heel and stalked back toward his bedroom, sandals snapping loudly against the hardwood floor.

Absolutely not. No chance. He was tired, emotionally drained, and approximately one inconvenience away from screaming into a pillow.

Practising pole dancing in the apartment was a problem for tomorrow's Craig.

Unless, of course, Eros had other plans for tomorrow already.