Golf Trip, Nineteenth Hole

My wife thought golf was the boring part. She read by the pool while I played badly with clients.

The resort bar after eighteen holes—nineteenth hole—was where wives waited and stories loosened.

Claire was not my wife. Another man's wife, laughing at bad jokes, dress casual, eyes sharp.

We talked kids, suburbs, the way marriage compresses people.

"You're easy to talk to," she said.

"So are you."

Her room key "accidentally" visible. Not accident.

I went.

Not proud. Not unique. Human in the way that scares me.

Three days of resort—golf by day, bar by night, room in the middle. Home afterward: showers, guilt, silence.

Claire texted once. I deleted.

My wife asked if I had fun. I said yes.

Fun is not the right word.

I still golf. I don't stay late at nineteenth holes.

Temptation has a soundtrack—ice in glasses, TV sports, laughter that says you could be chosen again if you fail your own rules.