Allie and I go to the beach. When we walk by the volleyball courts, I can't look. Everyone is getting better while I am away at school. I am getting flabby. Not as flabby as Allie. She has no muscle. I wave across the beach to a couple of players. I'm sure they think Allie and I are having sex because that's the only reason for a volleyball player to be friends with someone who's flabby.

"Do you miss it?" she asks.

"Sometimes," I say, "but you can't have real friends on the circuit because everyone's always trying to dump their partner for someone better."

"I'll be your friend."

"My muscles are atrophying."

"So? Look at mine," Allie says.

"Yeah. I see that. How could you model with no muscles?"

"After a good shoot, muscles can be drawn in."

We put our towels down close to the tide line. All we brought are towels and sun screen. It feels weird to be at the beach with no balls.

Allie says, "Why did you quit?"

I say, "Do you understand how good I was? I mean eight hours a day. Running in the sand, lifting weights. I was great. I can't relax until you realize how great I was." "I think you're great now. I'm really glad to be at the beach with you."

"Okay, but I want you to be impressed at what a great athlete I am. I worked really hard at volleyball."

"I am impressed. You still look like an athlete."

"I do?"

"Yeah. Especially your legs."

"Okay. Good. Thanks."

We rub sunscreen on each others' backs and lie side by side, toes in the sand.