Mango
Mezgarita

High noon in July. Ninety-four degrees. The greens at PopStroke Wesley Chapel shimmering like a mirage in a desert movie, and my rival, Teresa, two strokes up through eleven.

We have played each other for six years. She has a putting stroke like a metronome and the smugness of a cat on a windowsill.

On the 12th she left herself a delicate downhill putt off the back tier, the kind that rolls forever if you breathe on it. I stood quietly. I did not cough. I am a sportswoman. She made it anyway.

I needed reinforcements, and they came straight out to the course. A Mango Mezgarita, a mezcal margarita in a sun hat, sweating in the heat like it had something to confess.

Bosscal mezcal, smoky and soulful, a campfire in a bottle. Mango real, thick and golden as the afternoon sun. Agave nectar, slow and sweet. Fresh lime juice, bright as a bell. And a dusting of Tajin, chili and lime and salt, a little firework in every sip.

Smoke. Sweet. Heat. Cold. All at once, like a mariachi band tuning up in your mouth. I lined up the 13th, a thirty-footer up and over the ridge.

I didn't make it. But I lagged it to six inches, and for the first time all day, Teresa ordered one too.