Paul clutched the club with delicate fingers, remembering Michael. Michael. The man who had taught him how to play. His tireless devotion to making sure he was firmly holding him from behind, grasping Paul's lithe waist, assuring his swing was strong and silent and MEANINGFUL. Their time wrestling in the sand pit. Their time alone under the windmill, searching for balls of one kind...and another.
Michael....Michael....whither the steamy nights of putt-putt?