Original prose works
It was on the occasion of his return from the Yucatan, when passing through Duty Free he saw the watch, or rather heard the whisper of the perfect prologue that slips beyond the monogrammed curtain of a discrete French cuff to deliver, sotto voce, a life-sustaining pulse to its audience as it anxiously waited for the grand drama of his life to proceed. This, he thought, was just the dramatis persona he needed.
Since that time part of my internal life has been absorbed by this convergence of senses: the smell of freshly cut grass, the bounce of the turf under foot, the hazard wind on my cheek, the weight of a bag of clubs over my shoulder, the sunlight on a white-hot golf ball flung against an intense blue sky and falling to an absinthe-green fairway, where it bounces and rolls to a breathless stop, and the faintest of sounds that is heard when a ball is finally struck along a tightly mowed and sinuously undulating surface of grass toward the inevitable, unsuspecting hole.
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