The Aperol
Loma

Golden hour on the patio at PopStroke The Colony. A first date, technically, though he had already beaten me at cornhole twice and was now explaining, with great patience, the physics of the four-bagger.

We had finished eighteen holes an hour earlier. I had read every green like a woman deciphering ancient scrolls. He had simply walked up and hit the ball. He shot four under. I did not.

So I went to the bar to recover my dignity, and I came back carrying two of these. An Aperol cocktail with a tequila heart.

Teremana blanco tequila, clean and quietly confident, like someone who doesn't need to tell you about their sailboat. Aperol, that bittersweet orange glow, the exact color of the sky behind him. Owen's Rio Red grapefruit, tart and blushing. A thread of agave nectar to round it all off, sweet as the moment he laughed at my terrible bag toss.

He held the glass up to the light. "It matches," he said, meaning the sunset.

It did. Everything did, briefly.

We played one more round of cornhole as the string lights came on overhead. I lost again. I have since lost to him at ping pong, at foosball, and on a sloping par three that I still maintain breaks the other way. Eleven months now. I keep losing. I keep coming back.