CREATIVE NON-FICTION
Golf and Love
Catherine Mwitta
Underneath the glowing red light that flickers on and off, making harsh patterns across Mackenzieâs face, we smoke a joint in contrived conviviality.
He blows some smoke in my face. âWhat made you ask me to come out tonight?â
I fiddle with my lighter instead of looking into his eyes. âBored, I guess.â
The conversation ceases. Iâm not really in the mood to impress right now. Iâm more content with just having his presence. I cast my eyes across the park and shift my weight from one leg to another.
âThought you were leading me to my death there for a moment,â he says.
How do you respond to someone when they say something like that?
I play some songs from my phone as we walk back to his car. The sunsets behind us, its rays cooking our backs like a burger on a grill.
âYou canât actually enjoy that music.â
âWhy not?â I say.
âI just donât think anyone can.â
What he probably meant was that people that look like you arenât supposed to like classical music, and if you say you do, then you must be lying. Or trying to look cool, or better yet, trying to be âauthentic.â Whatever thatâs supposed to mean.
âYou working tomorrow?â I ask.
âYeah.â
âWell, see you then,â I say once we reach his car.
He waits around the driverâs side door like heâs expecting me to change my mind and get in with him. Flies dance underneath the streetlight in front of Mackenzieâs car, their synchronistic movements almost trance-like. I donât glance back at him as I walk home.
I consider calling in sick the next day so I can do without having to see him, but remember Iâd already called in the week before. Making another sick call so soon would look suspicious. My manager rules with a great iron fist that is often brought down on me whenever I make mistakes at work, or the slightest request. Unfortunately, Mackenzie is something I cannot avoid for today, no matter how much I want to.
He doesnât try to talk to me while Iâm on my shift, and Iâm not particularly in the mood for his conversation either. So, we keep our distance from one another.
âArenât you hot in that?â Rachel asks.
âIâm fine,â I say.
She lets out a sarcastic laugh. âYouâre wearing a jean jacket in thirty-degree weather. How can you be just âfine?ââ
Sheâs right. Iâm drenched in sweat every day I transit to work, but this is the only jacket I own.
I see the way the people in this store look at me. The amount of money customers that come into this place and spend on clubs could pay for the cost of my tuition at school. Iâm aware of my economic status, how different I look from everyone else.
I donât hold whatever Rachel or the rest of my coworkers think about me against them though. Theyâre a product of their environment. Being aware of that calms the darker, more depressing thoughts that surface whenever Iâm around them.
âIâm off,â I say.
I move around from the register and make my way to the break room. While opening the door, I bump into Mackenzie. A smile plays on his face. Like heâs aware of something that Iâm not, and heâs weighing his options on whether to let me in on that information or keep me suffering from curiosity.
âClosing tomorrow night?â
âYes,â I say. âYou?â
He smiles. âYeah, see you then.â
He leaves the break room soon after our conversation, and I canât help but feel as though his giddiness has caused an itch to rise at the back of my scalp. I push it aside. Itâs better to have someone who genuinely wants to be around me than someone who doesnât.
As I walk towards the front of the store, I stop at the cash register. My gaze latches onto Rachel and Mackenzie at the other side of the till by the store entrance. They look around to see if anyone is watching them. When they discover they have a sort of temporary privacy, they kiss. For a moment, I feel like a child watching another play with a toy thatâs mine. Then I remind myself Iâve never owned anything in my life, so I donât have the right to feel this way about this man. Once theyâve finished their little rendezvous, I walk towards the register.
âThe amount of money customers spend on clubs could pay for the cost of my tuition at school. Iâm aware of my economic status. Iâm aware of how different I look from everyone else.â
âBag check,â I yell from across the other till, the one by the store exit.
Neither of them moves from their spot from across the register. âItâs ok, you can go,â Rachel says.
She smiles at me, but it doesnât look quite genuine and sure as hell doesnât feel it. I spare a glance at Mackenzie. Itâs not like I want him to defend me, but solidarity wouldâve been great, I donât get even a bit of that from him.
We donât talk that much the following day. Itâs just the two of us in the store so itâs a real effort to stay separate from one another, but the image of him and Rachel kissing has already been transposed in my mind like an etch-a-sketch. So when he passes by me in the store, I give him a mercenary glare. And when he tries to speak to me, if Iâm not required to respond, I turn my back to him.
âGot a ride home?â he asks.
I finish counting all the money in the register before I answer him. âNo, Iâm bussing it.â
âWant a ride?â
Who would ever say no to a free ride? âSure.â
I wait in his car as he locks up the store. My hand moves over all the buttons in his vehicle. Itâs modern and new, a car even my mother canât afford.
âMy stereo isnât working right now. It got all messed up this weekend,â he says.
âThatâs fine, I donât mind the quiet.â
He slides the car windows open and begins whipping down the highway. The sound of the wind is like a blow dryer in my ears, its cold breeze reaching into me through my jacket and squeezing my heart. This is the most Iâve felt this whole summer.
We stop at my street, and instead of pulling into my driveway, he parks by the sidewalk. The moon looms over his head like a tyrant, making his blonde hair a halo above him. Itâs funny actually, heâs been looking less and less heaven-sent to me lately.
âWant to get high?â he asks.
My palms grow sweaty, and I wring them dry like theyâre dish rags. âSure.â
He lights up the joint, inhales twice, and then hands it to me.
My friends say you should always go with whatever a guy you like says, that you should never cry in front of them, and that they should definitely be the first one to tell you they love you. I constantly debate them on this way of thinking. Why should I be afraid to express myself? Why should I be scared to let someone know they make me feel alive?
So I donât inhale the joint, I just pass it back to him. And he frowns at me. âI can tell you donât smoke that much,â he says.
âHowâs that?â
âThe way you hold a joint is all wrong, you should hold it like this.â He then proceeds to show me the right way. âThat way, you wonât end up burning your fingers when it becomes a roach.â
I nod, itâs more polite than telling him I donât care.
âRachel said something so funny the other day,â he says.
âYeah?â
âShe say anything about me to you?â
âMe and her donât talk that much.â
âSheâs pretty cute,â he says.
I canât breathe quite right, so I pop my head out the car window. Itâs pouring, the rain ruining the make-up I put on for Mackenzie that morning. Raindrops fall from underneath the streetlight, making the water turn into dripping gold. There are no flies around the fluorescent today.
âSheâs my type,â he says. âIâve only ever dated blonde girls.â
âThen you should ask her out.â
Theyâre perfect for each other, cut from the same cloth, a reflection of the type of upper-class society I can never b...