

Ten at night, mid-June, the air thick and sweet as a Gulf Coast porch. Cicadas going. My best friend from grade school, Lena, on a layover she had extended specifically to beat me at putting.
She did not beat me. Not on the front nine, anyway.
On the 13th at PopStroke Cedar Park I had a putt over a crest and down a slope toward a cup tucked at the back, maybe thirty feet, maybe a lifetime. I hit it, turned away, and heard it fall. Birdie. Lena called it witchcraft. I called it a sign that we should eat.
Fried shrimp. Hand-breaded and crispy, curled like little golden question marks, each one answering itself in a single crunch. Beside them, sweet onion dill, cool and herby and faintly sweet, the flavor of a summer night by the water. A grilled lemon, charred and glistening, ready to be squeezed over everything. And green onions scattered across the top, bright as fresh-cut grass on an early morning green.
We ate them with our fingers at a patio table, the lemon running down our wrists, the string lights humming.
Lena got her revenge on the back nine. She aced the 17th. I have no defense.
She caught her flight at six the next morning, and texted me from the gate: one word, shrimp.

