Match Play by D. Michael Poppe

driving south on the coast toward San Diego. He is absorbed in self-doubt, questioning himself how to play the next shot. Should he drug her again at dinner, allow some time for effect and then move to the green after? Is he rushing things? Is this opportunity worth playing? He is engrossed in his thoughts when he is interrupted by a shout from Emily.
    “Get off here! Get off here!” She is pointing and yelling.
    He is not in the right lane to exit but her urgency causes him to swerve in front of an adjacent car and take the exit. When they are on the ramp, he slows and looks at her. She is succumbing to the influence of the drugs.
    “What was that about? I don’t see any restaurants!” He thinks she is perhaps confused.
    “No, I know. This is the exit to my house. I want to change clothes before we go to dinner. You don’t mind do you?” She looks at him half smiling, half pleading.
    David is disoriented by this request, things are happening too fast. Thoughts are tumbling around in his head. He spots a small store on a corner with a newspaper kiosk in front. He pulls over by the papers and puts the car in park.
    “I’ll get a newspaper; I can read it while you’re changing.”
    “I get the Times ,” she says.
    “All right. Where to next?” He gestures at the street as he looks to her for direction.
    “Stay on this street until you get to Beach and then turn right. It’s about two more blocks to Tenth.”
    He likes this neighborhood; it is full of bungalows from the 1920s and 1930s. Some are wood, some Spanish-style with stucco. Emily sits up as they enter the third block, tells him to turn right at the next corner.
    “That’s it right there, the one with the arched doorway and all the windows,” she points.
    He pulls up in front as she fumbles with the car door. She grabs her wallet but he keeps her keys.
    “Let me get my briefcase from the trunk. Do you want your clubs in the house?” he asks.
    “No, I’ll transfer them to my car when I turn this one in to the dealer.”
    He takes her arm as they walk to the front door. She selects a key from the key ring, hands it to him and he unlocks the door. The inside of the house appears small at first glance; it is well-lit, stylish and colorful, a charming Spanish bungalow with arched windows and doors, hardwood floors, well-chosen area rugs and cleanlined furniture.
    He quickly scans the room and spots the LA Times on an end table. A small bookshelf holds golf trophies. Emily sits on the couch, oblivious to his snooping.
    “You look like you need something cool to drink. Where’s the kitchen?”
    She points at a doorway and says, “Thanks. I’d like some orange juice.”
    He pours the orange juice while adding one more relaxant. David hums a tune while he gives the juice a little stir, adds some ice, and returns to the living room. The room seems a little warm for his comfort. Emily is almost asleep. He shakes the glass near her face and she opens her eyes and gives him a sleepy smile.
    “Thanks,” she says as she holds the glass to her face and winces at the cold, then slowly takes a large swallow.
    His entire being is on edge in anticipation of the conclusion of the second hole. He can feel her in his body. Her essence consumes him. He can feel himself all around her.
    Suddenly, the glass falls to the floor. Emily is unconscious. The waiting is over.
    He places his briefcase on a side table, opens it and puts on latex gloves. He begins a search of the house and is surprised to discover that it is larger than he imagined. There are three bedrooms with a master bath. He closes all the blinds and curtains and works his way back to the living room.
    From his briefcase, he gets a pair of plastic coveralls and a shower cap. The coveralls are made specifically for his needs to shield his clothing; he slips them on and tucks his hair into the shower cap.
    He stands and studies Emily Cho. No one, not even his father, can criticize his play. His shot to the