Chalking up his cue, Daniel played out a bank shot in his head. Lining it up as best he could, he made the unsuccessful shot before saying, "I read those poems you emailed me."

Monique set her cue against the wall and finished off her beer before refilling her glass and topping off Daniel's.

"You did?" she asked.

"Yeah, and I think they're your best yet," Daniel responded.

"Stop it," Monique said.

"No, I'm serious. In fact, they're so good that I really think you should consider submitting them to some publications. I think you'd be crazy not to."

Monique and Daniel were both writers, however, the similarities between the two stopped with the label. Daniel had studied literature and creative writing in college, graduating with a degree in English. Since then he had supplemented his full-time job at the bank with the occasional freelance gig. He had also begun writing stories, most of them humorous. Although he doubted that he would ever manage to fully support himself with his writing, he was determined to make the attempt, and over the past year had begun writing more frequently in his spare time.

In contrast, Monique had written poetry since junior high. Most of it was extremely personal, all reflective of the many problems she had overcome in her 23 years. Unlike Daniel, Monique rarely shared her writing with others, and had no interest in publishing it, something that frustrated Daniel to no end.

"I know that we've had this conversation before," Daniel continued, "and I don't expect it to yield a different result than it has in the past, but you're just too good of a writer to keep your poetry to yourself."

"I'm really not a very good writer," she responded, returning to the table.

"Yes, you are," Daniel replied. "Your poetry is amazing."

"Have you ever seen me write anything other than poetry?" she asked.

"Well, no, but what does that have to do with anything?"

"Trust me, if you read one of my stories you'd agree that I'm not very good."

"You write stories, too?" Daniel asked, genuinely surprised. Although Monique didn't often share her writing with others, Daniel had always assumed that she shared all of it with him, an assumption he now realized was slightly presumptuous.

"To call what I've written 'stories' is an insult to you and everyone else out there who actually knows how to write one. However, I have tried."

"I want to read them."

"No, you don't. Besides, I threw them all away. They were scaring me."

"Cut it out."

"No, I'm serious. Just having them around the house was giving me nightmares." Monique flashed Daniel a huge grin as she said this and took her shot, sinking the six ball.

Daniel was getting irritated, both from the conversation and from the fact that Monique was wasting him on the table. She lined up another simple bank shot and once again proved successful, dropping the five into the left side pocket. He took a strong pull from his glass and waited for his next turn, watching as Monique sank the one ball with an angled shot before finally scratching. She quickly fished the cue ball out of the pocket and handed it to Daniel.

"Look," he began as he lined up the ten with a long shot, "even if you can't write short stories, you're still an excellent poet. Don't worry about writing fiction. Just focus on your poetry."

He hit the cue hard, and was surprised when the ten dropped in the rear corner. He was much less surprised when the cue followed it in.

"Ahhh! I give up," he exclaimed, resting his cue against the table and finishing off his beer. The pitcher was over half empty now, containing just enough Coors Light to refill his glass and top off Monique's. He immediately began sipping from his now full glass, then thought better of it as he realized that he was already well past the legal limit and put the glass down on the table.

"Daniel, I hear what you're saying," Monique said, looking for her next shot, "but I will never consider myself much of a writer. If I was, I would be able to write something other than poetry."

"You do realize that you're not only insulting yourself with that statement, but many of the most highly regarded writers in history?"

"Ehh!" Monique dismissed him, waving her hand as if to brush something from the air in front of her.

"Okay, Ms. Napoli," Daniel said, laughing. "You're on the hot seat. You have until we finish this game to prove to me that poetry has no merit as a literary genre."

Daniel had been looking at his watch as he said this, emphasizing the action to give the Monique a sense of being under the gun. As he looked up, he realized that she hadn't been looking at him, her eyes fixated on something behind him.

"Oh my God, that guy's hot," Monique said quietly, grinning at Daniel.

He turned around to see who she was looking at. There weren't too many people in the pool hall, and none of the men behind him looked worthy of the break in conversation. Most of them looked underage.

"Which one?" Daniel asked.

"The guy right behind you, in the blue shirt and glasses," Monique whispered.

Daniel turned again, trying to be inconspicuous. Quickly scanning the thin crowd, his eyes finally found Monique's prey. One table over from them, a gawky-looking man of about 25 leaned over a pool table, laughing with one of his buddies. From what Daniel could see, the two seemed to be alone. You have got to be kidding, he thought to himself, an unexpected wave of jealousy sweeping over him.

"I should have known," he said in response, "you've never been drawn to the sort of guys most women would find attractive."

"He's cute!" she whispered back, smiling towards the man in the blue shirt.

"If you feel that way, then why don't you talk to him? There are two of them, so I'll go chat up his friend while you make your move."

The thought of actually doing this was about as pleasant to Daniel as spending a full weekend with the Mistakes, but he felt obligated to offer it. Besides, he was fairly confident that Monique would turn the offer down, which she did with a quick shake of her head.

"Nah, I could never do that," she said, "besides, I believe we have a game to finish."

"And I believe you have dug your own grave with these poetry comments. Please explain yourself, and do remember that the clock is ticking. If you haven't convinced me of the unimportance of poetry by the time we sink the eight ball, your Jeep will turn into a pumpkin."

"Save me money on insurance, at least," she joked. "Is it my shot?"

"Yeah."

"Perfect. Okay let me clear something up. I never said poetry was unimportant or without merit. I said that if I was a good writer, I'd be capable of writing something else."

"Okay," Daniel replied, a bit confused, "but how is that any different?"

"It is different, because although poetry can be beautiful and carry just as much weight as other forms of writing, it's very easy to write. Well, that's at least true for my poetry."

"It's not easy, Mon. I can't write it."

"Sure you could, but it would require changing the way you look at life."

"Okay, you've completely lost me now," Daniel said, growing frustrated.

Monique looked quickly over at the guy in the blue shirt, and smiled at him again.

"Hey, he smiled back!" she whispered excitedly.

"Great, but go on with what you were saying," Daniel replied.

"Yeah, okay," Monique said, her voice once again shifting to a more serious tone. "It's quite simple, really. I write poetry the same way I try to live my life. It's the only way I know how to live, and I guess that carries over to my writing...it's also the only way I know how to write."

"And how is that?" Daniel said slowly, trying to understand.

"Well, here...let me see if I can show you," Monique offered, and motioned towards the pool table. "Have you ever wondered why I almost always beat you at pool?"

"Not really. I'm just not very good."

"Do you know why?"

"Why?" Daniel asked with a shrug.

"The reason that I usually beat you is because we look at the game differently," Monique answered. She was speaking slowly and in a clear voice, like a college professor giving a lecture. "Look down at the table. What do you see?"

"I don't know...balls?"

"Of course. And each ball occupies its own spot on the table. They're scattered, seemingly at random."

"Okay."

"They're not."

"What?" Daniel asked. He was uncertain if it was the beer, the discomfort he was feeling over Monique's now ongoing flirtation with the guy in the blue shirt, or if he was simply tired, but this entire conversation was just confusing him.

"They're not random," Monique explained. "We've set the balls up like that. Whether deliberately or on accident, the balls are in those particular spots because we put them there. A good player sets up all his shots early on in the game, and that's what you don't see. I look at this table and I see a series of shots that I've laid out, and although you can't see them yet, you will be all too aware of them after I've beaten you."

With this, Monique made an impressive bank shot, sinking the seven ball in the left side pocket. Daniel was intrigued, but still confused.

"Nice shot, and I understand what you're saying," he said, "but what does this have to do with poetry, and what does any of this have to do with life?"

"It has everything to do with both of them, Daniel, because I live my life and I write my poetry the same way. When you first read one of my poems what you see is a series of words, scattered across a page, seemingly at random. Often they appear to take you one way, then unexpectedly veer off in a different direction, catching you by surprise. Seven ball into the back right corner."

Daniel had been mulling over everything Monique had said to him, but found his attention returning to the game. "You do realize that you have a much easier shot over here, angling the seven into the left side pocket," he offered.

Monique smiled at him in response and once again pulled back her stick, hitting the cue ball forcefully. Banking off of the left side of the table the cue barely hit the seven ball, nudging it in the opposite direction, and directly into the back right corner pocket. She had now sunk all of her balls, leaving only the eight ball.

"Like I said, different than what you expected. There's a method behind how I play, Daniel. You might not be aware of it while we're in the middle of a game, but you can see the final result. That's the same way I write poetry, and it's the same way I approach life. I don't like leaving things to chance, and as often as possible I try to plan things out. In life, you can't always do that in an obvious way, and much like in pool, it doesn't always work out. But it's the only way I know how to live. Let's see now... Eight ball in the front left corner."

Winking to the guy in the blue shirt, Monique lined up her stick and completed the shot, easily sinking the eight ball in her chosen pocket.