Anything, Even This (part 1)
Well. ::deep breaths:: It's a draft. I don't know what I think of it (I'm having my traditional end-of-draft nervous breakdown just now), but it's a draft. 2 days before my self-imposed deadline. So that's good (this is Gay Subtext, for anyone wondering what the hell I'm on about).
So. To celebrate, I'm going to post...something totally unconnected to the play in any way whatsoever! Woo-hoo.
Everybody remember "The God and the Machine"? Yes? Good. Because you are about to encounter...(::dramatic music::) The Companion Piece! (Aaarrrgh! Nooooo!) Yes, it's true. There's just no hiding from it.
* * *
Anything, Even This
Smalley won't say she hates golf. Not out loud. What she will say is that, if asked to make a list of the top 999 ways she'd like to spend a Saturday, going to a women's golf tournament would not be on it.
But it's on Aimee's, and lately things with Aimee have been so bad that Smalley is willing to do anything that will spare her her mothers' pity-stuffed sympathy and Carter's I-told-you-so condolences.
Anything, even this.
Smalley has pictured herself camped between the 18th green and the clubhouse, bottomless mai-tai in hand, pretending to watch the contestants putt out the last hole. When Aimee informs her that they'll be following one golfer for the entire round, that's almost enough for Smalley to decide the ends don't justify the pain. Then Carter mentions that he's thinking of bringing Rohin home for the first time this fourth of July, and he sounds so damned happy.
Anything, Smalley tells herself. Even this.
They will be part of the crowd following Amy Alcott. Aimee claims this is because they have the same name, and Smalley doesn't doubt that there's some truth to this, but she recalls that Amy Alcott is given to wearing clingy white polo shirts and jumping into water hazards in them.
Smalley hasn't seen this much green and white since her last semester at Michigan State. Unbroken, green, flowerless trees; green grass (not of a shade found in nature). White shirts; white shorts; white hats; white people - and she doesn't mean Caucasian; she means white, like these people should be sleeping through the heat of the day in air-conditioned coffins.
And then there's a flash of red and dark, and Smalley nearly collapses in relief. "Who's that? The woman in the red shirt?" she asks Aimee.
Aimee shrugs, uninterested in anyone who isn't Amy Alcott. Smalley goes to look for the woman in red, but she's disappeared.
A bored-looking man who must be dying in that sports coat signals for the crowd to be silent. "Starting 18th today, from Austin, Texas, Hollyhock Morris."
When the woman steps up to the tee, Smalley's face splits into what Carter calls her 'idiot grin.' She turns to Aimee. "The woman in the red shirt is Hollyhock Morris."
*
Aimee's plenty interested - and impressed - by the time their sweating, sorry asses drag them around to the last green. Morris is kicking the crap quite nicely out of Alcott - and half the rest of the field, as well. She started the day in 14th place; she's ending it in 3rd.
As she handily eagles the last hole, Morris waves, exhausted but triumphant, at the appreciative crowd. She stuffs her glove into her pocket, and as she pulls her hand out again, Smalley sees something small fall out of her pocket and onto the ground. As unobtrusively as she can, Smalley darts forward - the wrong way against the tide - and stoops to pick it up.
"What's that?" Aimee's voice, suddenly in her ear, makes her jump half a foot.
"I don't know," she admits, holding it up. "I think Hollyhock Morris dropped it."
Aimee peers at the mother-of-pearl snap. "It's a ball marker."
"A ball what?"
"For when your ball lands - never mind. If it's Hollyhock's, she'll want it back."
Hollyhock isn't hard to find. She's the surprise of the tournament, and everyone wants to be this close to greatness. Smalley waits on the edge of the throng.
"Hollyhock!"
"A word for ESPN, Hollyhock."
"Hollyhock, sign this ball for my daughter."
"Miss Morris?" Very slowly, Hollyhock turns towards Smalley. Smalley swallows hard and holds up the ball marker. "You dropped this, I think."
Hollyhock looks at it, then up at Smalley, and then back down. And then she smiles. That smile is so bright that Smalley wants to forget Aimee, forget every relationship that's ever collapsed under her. Hollyhock reaches out and reclaims her property. Her fingers brush Smalley's, and Smalley jolts a little. She wants to do it again.
"Thank you," Hollyhock murmurs. She looks like she's about to say something else, but the rush of reporters and officials and paparazzi (who knew golfers have paparazzi?) sweeps her away.
"Good work. Want a drink?"
There's Aimee's voice in her ear again, jerking her back into reality, and, my, reality sucks. "So badly I'll drink Hamm's if I have to."
Aimee laughs and pulls her towards the clubhouse. "I guarantee there's no Hamm's here. But - that's pretty dire."
"You don't know the half of it."
They stay in the clubhouse nearly an hour, and Smalley repeatedly scans the crowd for dark hair and a red shirt, but it seems she's not destined to have that kind of luck today. Or, possibly, ever.
Continues here.
So. To celebrate, I'm going to post...something totally unconnected to the play in any way whatsoever! Woo-hoo.
Everybody remember "The God and the Machine"? Yes? Good. Because you are about to encounter...(::dramatic music::) The Companion Piece! (Aaarrrgh! Nooooo!) Yes, it's true. There's just no hiding from it.
* * *
Anything, Even This
Smalley won't say she hates golf. Not out loud. What she will say is that, if asked to make a list of the top 999 ways she'd like to spend a Saturday, going to a women's golf tournament would not be on it.
But it's on Aimee's, and lately things with Aimee have been so bad that Smalley is willing to do anything that will spare her her mothers' pity-stuffed sympathy and Carter's I-told-you-so condolences.
Anything, even this.
Smalley has pictured herself camped between the 18th green and the clubhouse, bottomless mai-tai in hand, pretending to watch the contestants putt out the last hole. When Aimee informs her that they'll be following one golfer for the entire round, that's almost enough for Smalley to decide the ends don't justify the pain. Then Carter mentions that he's thinking of bringing Rohin home for the first time this fourth of July, and he sounds so damned happy.
Anything, Smalley tells herself. Even this.
They will be part of the crowd following Amy Alcott. Aimee claims this is because they have the same name, and Smalley doesn't doubt that there's some truth to this, but she recalls that Amy Alcott is given to wearing clingy white polo shirts and jumping into water hazards in them.
Smalley hasn't seen this much green and white since her last semester at Michigan State. Unbroken, green, flowerless trees; green grass (not of a shade found in nature). White shirts; white shorts; white hats; white people - and she doesn't mean Caucasian; she means white, like these people should be sleeping through the heat of the day in air-conditioned coffins.
And then there's a flash of red and dark, and Smalley nearly collapses in relief. "Who's that? The woman in the red shirt?" she asks Aimee.
Aimee shrugs, uninterested in anyone who isn't Amy Alcott. Smalley goes to look for the woman in red, but she's disappeared.
A bored-looking man who must be dying in that sports coat signals for the crowd to be silent. "Starting 18th today, from Austin, Texas, Hollyhock Morris."
When the woman steps up to the tee, Smalley's face splits into what Carter calls her 'idiot grin.' She turns to Aimee. "The woman in the red shirt is Hollyhock Morris."
*
Aimee's plenty interested - and impressed - by the time their sweating, sorry asses drag them around to the last green. Morris is kicking the crap quite nicely out of Alcott - and half the rest of the field, as well. She started the day in 14th place; she's ending it in 3rd.
As she handily eagles the last hole, Morris waves, exhausted but triumphant, at the appreciative crowd. She stuffs her glove into her pocket, and as she pulls her hand out again, Smalley sees something small fall out of her pocket and onto the ground. As unobtrusively as she can, Smalley darts forward - the wrong way against the tide - and stoops to pick it up.
"What's that?" Aimee's voice, suddenly in her ear, makes her jump half a foot.
"I don't know," she admits, holding it up. "I think Hollyhock Morris dropped it."
Aimee peers at the mother-of-pearl snap. "It's a ball marker."
"A ball what?"
"For when your ball lands - never mind. If it's Hollyhock's, she'll want it back."
Hollyhock isn't hard to find. She's the surprise of the tournament, and everyone wants to be this close to greatness. Smalley waits on the edge of the throng.
"Hollyhock!"
"A word for ESPN, Hollyhock."
"Hollyhock, sign this ball for my daughter."
"Miss Morris?" Very slowly, Hollyhock turns towards Smalley. Smalley swallows hard and holds up the ball marker. "You dropped this, I think."
Hollyhock looks at it, then up at Smalley, and then back down. And then she smiles. That smile is so bright that Smalley wants to forget Aimee, forget every relationship that's ever collapsed under her. Hollyhock reaches out and reclaims her property. Her fingers brush Smalley's, and Smalley jolts a little. She wants to do it again.
"Thank you," Hollyhock murmurs. She looks like she's about to say something else, but the rush of reporters and officials and paparazzi (who knew golfers have paparazzi?) sweeps her away.
"Good work. Want a drink?"
There's Aimee's voice in her ear again, jerking her back into reality, and, my, reality sucks. "So badly I'll drink Hamm's if I have to."
Aimee laughs and pulls her towards the clubhouse. "I guarantee there's no Hamm's here. But - that's pretty dire."
"You don't know the half of it."
They stay in the clubhouse nearly an hour, and Smalley repeatedly scans the crowd for dark hair and a red shirt, but it seems she's not destined to have that kind of luck today. Or, possibly, ever.
Continues here.