Miso
Salmon

December. A cold, clear night, the patio heaters glowing orange like a row of small, obliging suns.

Across the table sat Whitaker. We have competed for the same clients for eleven years. In all that time he has called me "the woman who took the Henderson account," never once by name. We are not friends. We are something more durable than friends. We are adversaries who have agreed to play putting once a quarter and never discuss business on the course.

On the last hole at PopStroke Cedar Park I had a six-footer for the match. Slight downhill, slight break to the right. Whitaker coughed during my backstroke. Whitaker always coughs during my backstroke. I made it anyway, and the sound of the ball rattling the cup was as crisp as the air.

Afterward, warmed by the heaters, I ordered the miso salmon. A victor's dinner. Refined. Restrained.

Grilled salmon with a miso glaze, burnished and savory, with that deep, slightly sweet, almost caramel edge that makes you slow down and pay attention. Laid on a bed of cilantro lime rice, bright and fragrant. Steamed vegetables alongside, tender and clean. And a grilled lemon, its cut face charred, ready to be squeezed over everything in a small act of generosity.

Whitaker ordered the same. He said it was a coincidence. It was not.

We sat in silence a long while, our breath fogging, the course dark and quiet. Then he raised his glass an inch and said, "March."