Golf

         There’s a soft thwack! as the club connects with the golf ball. The ball sails through the air before plunging down into the middle of the bunker.

         I feel the presence before it hisses into my ear. “Let me give you some advice.”

         I jump. A gravelly voice chuckles. “Timothy,” I say tightly.

         “First off, you should be using a wedge.” I wince as he talks. Too many years of smoking has taken its toll on his voice. He hands me a wedge and I force the corners of my mouth to jerk up for a second. “Watch me,” he says.

         His face is tense, and his arms prepare to swing. Finally he connects. The ball travels in a perfect arc and lands neatly into the hole.

         “See?” he says in his condescending, scratchy voice.

         “Oh, yeah, great shot, Timothy,” I say, clenching my jaw to prevent the words I’d rather say from coming out.

         “Let’s get a drink, shall we?” he starts off the course in the direction of the bar.

         “I think I’ll take a couple more shots at it,” I tell him.

         “Suit yourself,” he shrugs, and pulls his golf bag behind him.

         As soon as he’s gone, I let out a sigh of relief and prepare to swing. I can see his balding head through the foliage. In a surge of anger, I re-align my shot and put all my resentment into the swing.

         The ball, miraculously, lands on the center of his head. His knees crumple and he goes down hard. The corners of my mouth jerk up again, this time for longer.

         “Oh my god! Mr. Greenwood!” shrieks a golfer. They race up to him.

“Did you see that?” They yell at me. “Mrs. Greenwood, your husband just got hit with a golf ball!”