After mini-golf---I shot a 46, thank you, three under par, but still two strokes behind our leader, Old Father Blonde, and I swear I wasn't letting the old duffer win just because he paid for dinner. I'd have had him if three---count 'em three---of what should have been holes in one hadn't rimmed the cup and shot back out. A fourth near hole in one stopped right on the lip--as I turned in the clubs for our party, there were only two customers in the pro shop. Pair of college-age women. Young college students. I'd say summer between their freshman and sophomore years. And one of them was beautiful.
Michelle Pfieffer at 19 beautiful.
Not a dead ringer but the same type. Small, delicate, with a wide heart-shaped face, and long tangled blond curls. She was even wearing glasses like the kind Pfieffer wore before she turned into Catwoman in Batman Returns. And she knew she was that beautiful. She knew how she appeared in the eyes of the two guys working the counter in the pro shop. Being that beautiful was the goal for the night for her. Not dressed for mini-golf, probably here after dinner at a nice restaurant, she was wearing high-heeled sandals and a mini-skirt that showed off her spectacular legs. While her friend paid for the round of golf she walked around and around the small space between the counter and the vending machines against the far wall, wiggling just enough and spinning when she turned in a way that made her skirt flounce, her movie star smile lighting up the shop, full power flirt turned on and aimed at the two guys.
The guys played it cool until she and her friend were out the door and could be seen teeing up at the first hole. Then they exchanged grins, shook their heads together, and laughed quietly. They were both too old for her---or she was too young for both of them---one was in his late 20s, the other nearing 40, old enough, too, that they are probably both attached, maybe even married.
But, boy, would they, if they could!