pavel shappo • go-go-golf

The sky became grey, wet and very tired, as if it had been pressing snow out of itself all night long. The melancholy of autumn immediately disappeared in whiteness. Dark oak woods on the horizon called for dangerous adventures.

Everyone in the office knew that he would come that day. So it happened. He entered the conference room without knocking in the middle of discussion of the company's new strategies and threw hard a ginger saddle, smelling of leather, on the table. Cups, pencils, pens — everything was scattered in all directions.
 — Well guys, I got a licence for a dragon, — he said with a smile. — Let's go hunting!
 — Wow! Kill us first! — whispered clerks splashed with coffee.
Ginger Manolo Blahnik shoes had been her long-cherished dream. Casting a glance on her purchase every now and then, she was nervously opening a bottle of red wine.
 — But where did you get money for all this splendour? — he asked, taking off his shabby sneakers.
 — Oh dear, such a surprise, I got a bonus pay… — she said, filling glasses to the brim.
P. S. He never saw his vintage putter again.

They always preferred driving range No. 9, which provided a wonderful view of the whole golf course, it was possible to see clearly almost every hole. They enjoyed watching rounds and listening to players' outcries and supporters' cheers. They would hit balls a bit, scatter clubs, then take two picnic chairs, wrap themselves in plaids and wait for a winner’s ball to come to them, because the putting green was really close. People said, if you catch a ball from the green, it would bring you luck in the following tournament. However, they were not lucky that season. Only corks from expensive champagne reached them.
Every time getting ready for a party, he would put a bottle of saten to the ice. Transparency of the evening intoxicated him. The order wouldn’t come. His craving for oysters was unbearable. Ironed and combed he waited for them. Finally they were delivered. Opening shells, he recollected a wine-maker's piece of advice: never to sprinkle them with lemon juice or anything else. Only with sparkling wine. That was the proper way to start the evening filled with fireworks, passionate dances and declarations of love.

Streams of smoke spread around the room taking the forms of Turkish cucumbers, jellyfish, ruffled nylon and guppies. She had a freshly squeezed juice, some water and a hand-rolled cigarette with tasty tobacco for breakfast. Then she immediately started to paint her nails. Smoke was replaced with a persistent smell of acetone. He was making coffee, smiling to the thought of spending the whole weekend together.
It was hard to sleep before the tournament. An early morning was covered by thick soft fog. She was feeling her way to the golf course. The fog was denser in hollows, while on the nearest hillock it started to lift. She was surprised to see a picnic table, covered with a white cloth, and came closer. There was a tea set for several people and a wedge on it. She grabbed the club and started to wave it furiously around to chase the fog away.
 — Watch out, young lady, there are people here… Everyone is sleepless before the tournament… — a male voice came. In a dissolving fog she saw a gentleman in a white suit and a hat, who sat on a chair, smoking a cigar. The champion of that year.

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