Earrings

April truly is the cruelest month, especially in Augusta during the first full week, breeding dogwoods and azaleas into dreams of a green jacket on Sunday. I won’t go into it about badges; suffice to say my family received. I was dating some loser the year I was twenty-two or -three, and I was taking him to the Par 3. At least I was until the night before.

He pissed me off something fierce, ended with me throwing my purse on the hood of my car, shattering a bottle of Elizabeth Arden’s Sunflowers. I still can’t tolerate that scent; it smells like frustration.

I went home and got out my jewelry box, attached the badges to a pair of earrings. Wednesday morning, I joined the traffic on Washington Road to the National. When I got to Berckman’s Road, I took a left into National Hills instead of a right towards golf course parking and Gate 6.

I pulled up to the Post Office, unaffiliated with sending mail. I walked in and sat down at the bar, ordered a Bloody Mary. I stayed at the bar all day, never walked across the street—I was more seen in the bar than I would be in the sun-stroked gallery, sunburns blooming like late camellias.

I received many compliments on my earrings, and many people tried to buy one off me, but I insisted they were a set, and removing them would destroy my outfit, a pair of 501 cutoffs and an Allman Brothers Tshirt. He was there but didn’t have the balls to approach me, not even on the pool table.