
April, and the air had that rinsed, hopeful quality you only get after a spring shower. My old college roommate Teddy had flown in from Denver. We hadn't seen each other in eleven years. We hadn't putted together in twenty.
He still crouched over every read like he was defusing something.
Somewhere around the 11th at PopStroke Katy, with a sidehill putt breaking a full cup to the left, he said what we were both thinking. Lunch. Chicken sliders. Now. On the patio.
What came out felt like a postcard from a whitewashed island I have never actually visited. A hand-pattied chicken slider resting on a toasted brioche bun. Cool tzatziki, generous, the color of sea foam. Pickled onions, pink and bright and a little bit flirtatious. A tangle of lemon-herb slaw with a snap to it. And one fresh tomato slice, laid on top like a red sun going down over the Aegean.
It was light. It was bright. It did not weigh me down for the back nine, which, at my age, matters more than I care to admit.
Teddy talked about his divorce. I talked about my knee. We both agreed the onions were a revelation.
On the 14th he sank a thirty-footer and hugged me like we were nineteen again, standing in a dorm hallway, broke and certain about everything.

