Gregson didn’t make it past round two. Some overzealous white belt put his arm in a cast. He was in paradise and he couldn’t golf. It was hell in paradise. If he couldn’t golf, he would fish, he would drink like a fish, he would blow smoke and skipper a boat to some godless shore where the sand was warm and his ass could appreciate it.
He laid there, trying to look at the sun. Isolated moments made him feel good. The trees talked to him. He glanced at a fiddler crab. Gregson had things in common with the shore. It was an island unto itself. If he stayed, nothing mattered. If he left, the wants of the world were waiting for him. He got up.
“Where are you going old man?” He felt her naked skin on his back. “Stay here with me.”
Gregson didn’t look. His purpose was his own; some things can’t be given away.
Women won’t wait and neither will the world, even though everybody seems to be waiting. Waiting to live and waiting to die.
Gregson left the shore. He wouldn’t wait a second longer.