Where before he was poking and prodding it with his science-gizmo, warning me not to touch it, now he casually tosses it from hand to hand, doing small tricks and generally showing off.
He goes to toss it again.
“Give me that.” I say impatiently, and snatch it from the air in front of him.
“Hay!” he says, like a child, but my eyes are already on the ball.
It’s about the size of a billiard-ball, and looks like it’s made of polished gold, feels like it too, but it’s very worn and weathered, like something very old. It has deep engravings, sometimes swirling and amorphous, elsewhere sharp and technical, but I am fixated by something else; because, scrawled over the technological beauty, like a doodle drawn on fine china, is the word “FUCK,” written in bold sharpie…
… in my handwriting.