The
Floridian

Our twentieth anniversary. A Sunday in late March, eleven in the morning, the air soft and citrusy, the patio umbrellas just opening like they had slept in too.

We had played the front nine at PopStroke The Colony first. Margaret rolled in a downhill eight-footer on the third and did a little shimmy I have not seen since our wedding reception. I fell in love again, right there, somewhere near the fringe.

We stepped off between nines and found a table in the sun. I ordered the most celebratory thing on the menu. It was this.

Tito's vodka, crisp and dependable, the way a good marriage should be. St. Germain, floral and elegant, elderflower like a garden party in a glass. Prosecco, bubbling up like laughter at the back of a church. Simple syrup. Lemon juice. Cranberry juice, rosy and tart. Grapefruit juice, sunny and a little bit bitter, which is honest, and which is love.

It was a St. Germain cocktail that tasted like a beach town where nobody owns a watch.

Margaret clinked my glass and said, "Twenty more." I said, "At least."

Then we walked back out to the tenth hole, arm in arm, and I three-putted from twelve feet. She didn't keep score. She never has. It's the secret, I think.