Birdie
Juice

I had not seen Marcus since college. Fifteen years, two kids for him, one divorce for me, my maiden name back, and a receding hairline of his we agreed not to discuss.

We met on a Saturday afternoon in late May, the sun high and generous, the greens at PopStroke The Colony rolling true as a pool table. On the 4th he left himself a nervous five-footer, uphill with a slight left edge. He missed it. I tapped in for par and said nothing, which is the most loving thing one old friend can do for another.

Then the drinks found us. Right there on the course, ordered between holes like a civilized person in a civilized age.

Birdie Juice. New Amsterdam gin, bright and botanical. Cucumber, cool as a cellar floor. Basil, green and peppery, the smell of an Italian grandmother's windowsill. A swirl of strawberry real, sweet and blushing. Simple syrup. A squeeze of lime juice. Topped with Sprite, so the whole thing fizzes like it's telling you a secret.

Pink. Sparkling. Absurdly refreshing, as a cucumber gin cocktail ought to be.

Marcus took one sip and lined up his putt on the 5th. A thirty-footer over a ridge, dying into the cup from the high side. Birdie.

He looked at the glass. He looked at me. "Fifteen years," he said, "and you finally bring something useful."