8/20/22 — Wager

The struggle was, as they say, real, and exhausting. Diane honestly couldn’t believe she’d let things get to this point. She didn’t even want to play golf, let alone with the Senior VP of her department, a man whose reputation was even more off-putting than his presence. And yet, here she was, knee deep in a sand trap trying to save triple bogey, because the invitation felt insidiously non-optional.

“We could make it interesting”, he’d said 9 holes ago, and even though she knew what that meant her ego couldn’t let it slide by. So they set their terms, each egregiously unacceptable in its way, his of course involving an inappropriate private meeting the kind which he’d unsubtly hinted at since she joined the company.

On her second try she got out of the trap and left herself a ten yard putt, which she sank, thankfully, keeping the damage to a double. But he was putting for eagle and had an excellent short game, so even from the edge of the green she was sure he could sink the ball in at most two and her hopes of not losing would sink with it.

She took a deep breath as he lined up the putt, concentrating, willing him to fuck it up. He stroked it beautifully, she hated to admit. It broke perfectly, heading straight for the hole.

She channeled all her desperation and anger and disgust and frustration at the little white ball. Willing it to stop. Praying for it to explode. Wishing a bird would swoop in and grasp it in its talons. Her head began to buzz. Her fingers tingled.

A grotesque grin crossed his face as he looked triumphantly at her.

She didn’t know why she did it but her arms and hands made shapes almost of their own volition. She felt a small but meaningful surge of electricity in her nerve endings. She leaned her whole body to the left.

The ball veered, just slightly, and rimmed out of the cup, settling a few feet wide. Did I do that?

He huffed and lined up his next shot. Not a problem. She was still ten strokes behind. But his ego was ever so slightly bruised.

He tapped it. She narrowed her focus and made her body an antenna. The ball went wide and stopped. He swore. Putted again. She felt herself learning to control whatever this was. Pushed it so wide it went off the green. Stroke. Miss. Stroke. Miss. She pushed it into the sand trap. He broke his putter over his knee, clearly injuring himself in the process.

She owned him now, and he didn’t even know he had a new master. She bid him a too-cheery “see you Monday” as he reluctantly paid his wager. She delighted in his bewildered, broken stance in the rear-view as she drove off in his, well, now hers, Mercedes, top down, cackling into the wind.