We talked directly about suicide. We agreed it was the ultimate selfish act. But only because it was ultimate. Ginny said there were plenty of other equally selfish acts. I’d rolled a joint and handed it to her, and I was holding a match to the end of it when she said, “It’s selfish when someone is late for an arranged meeting and they don’t call. It says they don’t value my time. It’s rude.” Her speech blew out the flame. I struck another match.

“And what does it teach me?” she continued, but she was talking to some spot on the wall behind me. She wasn’t looking at me. “Only to disregard you. Only to be unconcerned. Is that what you want?” She took a deep hit on the joint and I shook out the short flame.

It turned out she was addressing her married old boyfriend, but she hadn’t tried to kill herself over him. She looked at me and she said wearily but convincingly that she had felt she just didn’t have the stamina to go on. There seemed to be nothing else for it. I invited her to stay with me for awhile.

My brother then lived close by. We were into one of our habitual competitions, and I happened to have the table, so he was over at my place most nights.

I guess we got into ping pong back in 1964. That’s when I remember playing every night; I think my parents bought us the table that summer. I was 14 and Paul was 12 and it may be that AM transistor radios were just getting popular then, because I remember a small black one that aired the same run of rock ‘n’ roll songs while we played ping pong, and that thrust “Satisfaction” at me when I held it by my pillow at night.

The evenings were warm. Our parents sat on matching floral cushions in matching redwood chairs on their Southern California patio, looking at us or at their iceplant-edged lawn (or was it dichondra? those were dichondra days…), sipping martinis made with very little vermouth. Mom kept telling us to turn the radio down, and we ignored her. Paul stood six feet away from his end of the green table, ready to power the little ball back at me every chance he got. That meant I had to stand farther away from the table than I wanted – about three feet – but close enough that I could slice the way I liked at the hollow white ball.

I hit that ball back to him almost every time. We were pretty well matched. But I usually managed to cut at it with my paddle at an angle, to skim at the edge of it or pull away slightly even as I was pushing, so the ball went back to him over the stiff white net, but it never bounced the way he expected it would, and sometimes it fooled him enough that he mistruck. I loved it when that happened.

Paul and I don’t consistently play ping pong; it’s like we have infections and then remissions. When we’re into it we tend to neglect regular duties. We were having a good bout of it when Ginny moved in. She got to know Paul by watching us play. I’m sure that skewed her vision.

They met, they mated, and they married. Some of it was plain old timing; she was 28 and he was 30 and marriage was an age-appropriate exercise. But I know a lot of it had to do with misplaced emotions about me. For both of them.

Hannah and I have talked about this, and I kind of wish Ginny would overhear it. We know from Ginny and I know even from Paul that Ginny and Paul don’t have sex. Maybe once a year they do it, when they’re drunk and away from home in a nice hotel, under the influence of adult movies and limitless towels, but never at home. Ginny says she’s really not interested any more and she might try a woman. Paul says he doesn’t particularly like intercourse; he likes to cuddle. Both statements are weird.

I think it may be that Ginny and Paul each got together with the other as a way of having sex of a sort with me. And when it didn’t work they stopped having sex. Something like that.

Hannah and I agreed long ago that that’s the way it is. At least, I said it a lot and she didn’t seem to disagree. I can usually count on Hannah to let me know when she disagrees. I’m surprised Ginny hasn’t overheard us. And kind of sorry.

So Ginny and Paul are married. And Ginny is having an affair with a septuagenarian. She’s not exactly having sex with him, although she tells me he’s getting some Viagra, and they expect to consummate their relationship soon. For now, she says he spends hours on her pleasure.

I think it’s just plain silly. Sometime I feel like pushing her. Push…pull. Flirt…finesse. Give her a little spin till she sees herself.

I’ve invited her over for a game of ping pong. I hauled the old table out of the attic and set it up on the back patio, under the drooping pods of wisteria. It’s still bright green, and its lines are as white as first-aid tape. It reminds me of playground markings on asphalt, for four-square or dodgeball, of white alphabets on the classroom greenboards that replaced old blackboards. I ran my thumb over the red-patterned surface of a paddle and I cupped a white ball in my hand.

If Ginny could confront me about hearing my telephone conversations, then she can face me over a table tennis net. I imagine she’ll start close to the edge of the table but it won’t surprise me if she turns out to be a power hitter. I’m flexing my wrists with anticipation. We’ll see about her angles.