Fresh Fiction for Friday

She leaned forward, laughing energetically. The fluid in her glass slid forward as well, balancing precariously on the lip of said glass, threatening to spill. In her amusement, she never noticed, nor did she notice it teeter in the opposite side of the glass when she leaned back. Continuing to laugh, she rested her free hand on the leg of the fellow that caused her mirth. Calmly, the gentleman standing over her leaned down and removed the hand from the leg. The young lady, still amused, did not notice. Her entertaining companion shot a dirty look in the direction of the kill-joy, hoping to prevent any further interference on his part. For the gentleman’s part, he remained expressionless under the gaze. There was nothing to indicate that The Look had in any way proved effective as a corrective act. As a result, he gave up on dealing with the handler and returned his attention to the handlee.

It was difficult to continue communicating his clever comments over the clamor of the crowd in the club but her continued chortling indicated that he was succeeding. At the same time, he realized that she had drunk quite a lot of wine tonight and that this could be the primary source of her mirth. It was indeed possible that he could be reciting the phone book in order to receive the same response from her. If this was the case, tonight would indeed be a special night. A grin played about his lips as she laughed once again. He was in.

Having identified all this, he decided it was time to play his hand. It was late, he noted, and the day had been a long one. Perhaps, he suggested, it was time to call it a night. He could easily and gladly transport her home. What did she say to that?

Calmly, still lacking expression, her handler rested his hand on her shoulder. This contact seemed to activate her. While she concurred with his assessment regarding the lateness of the hour, she politely but firmly rejected his generous offer. At the same time, an evening spent in his company had turned out to be a rather pleasant experience, so perhaps they could do this again soon.

She rose suddenly and he stumbled to his feet to join her. In a manner that he could only describe as polite, she reached across the table to hug him, barely making contact between them. For a moment, he considered trying to sneak in a kiss but, before he could act on this theory, she was gone. He stepped to follow her but her handler gave him a glance that froze him in his tracks. In a flash, they were lost in the crowd outside the VIP section of the club.

Insanity! The plan was foolproof. He’d gotten her drunk. She was known to be a ‘party’ girl. He’d asked to take her home. It was a formula that had been successful for so many before him, so why not him?

It wasn’t the plan for the plan was good. It wasn’t the girl for she was easy. It was the handler. It was his fault!

How had this handler stymied him? It was not through muscle for he was not abundant in that area. It was not with height for he was average in that regard. It was not with words for he hadn’t spoken to either of them all night. Perhaps it was hypnotism? She had reacted rather oddly to that touch on her shoulder. Yet, that failed to explain why he had done nothing to resist the power of the handler.

That was exactly it; his power. The handler’s presence had been so strong that he had derailed the plan completely. It had been the briefest of glances yet it had accomplished so much.

It occurred to him that now was not the time to ponder these things. Perhaps it was not too late to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. He quickly made his way to the edge of the balcony, casting his eyes on the crowd, searching for a glimpse of her.

His heart raised. There she was! His heart sank. She was at the coat check room, right next to the exit. There was no way for him to get through the busy crowd in time to reach her. As he watched, she wandered out the door, closely followed by her handler as he shrugged on his tan trenchcoat.

Then they were gone.

Shoot Some Golfs

One of the problems with being a crummy golfer, as I am, is that you plan every shot with failure in mind. I don’t approach a 100 yard shot expecting to loft a casual shot onto the green; I smack at it with my 3 Iron hoping that it gets some air and doesn’t skip across the ground like a rock on water. As a result, when I do succeed, it’s an accident and I over achieve, often sending a ball flying over the green.

I’m not going to detail the 9 holes George and I played last Saturday. The most interesting golf story to tell is that of the perfect shot you made and the most tedious golf story to hear is the story of the perfect shot that someone else made. As a result, I’ll not detail my drive on the 14th hole that went far and true. It felt good. Every round of golf needs that hit, the one that feels good. If you don’t get one shot like that, there’s no incentive to keep playing.

I believe it was Mark Twain that noted ‘Golf is a good walk spoiled’. It’s not a concept I can totally argue with especially considering the frustration I have expressed on occasion on the course. At the same time, golf is a good excuse for a walk and I can use all the excuses for exercise that I can get. You may not have noticed but I can be a bit lazy.

I’m not very good at skipping rocks on water either.