We'll Always Have Paris Read Online Free

on the grass and stepped
    back quietly.
    ‘No, the others first,’ he said.
    The other two men had also found their white golf balls lying in the grass
    and now took turns. One swung and hit and walked off alone. The other swung and hit and then
    he, too, vanished in the twilight.
    The young man watched them going their separate ways.
    ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘I’ve never played in a foursome like
    this.’
    ‘It’s really not a foursome,’ said the old
    man. ‘You might call it a variation. They’ll go on and we’ll all meet again at the nineteenth
    green. Your turn.’
    The young man hit and the ball sailed off into the purple-gray sky. He could
    almost hear it hit the grass a hundred yards out.
    ‘Go on,’ said the old man.
    ‘No,’ said the young man. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll walk with you.’
    The old man nodded, positioned himself, and hit his golf ball into the dark.
    Then they walked on together in silence.
    At last the young man, staring ahead, trying to figure the beginning night,
    said, ‘I’ve never seen a game played this way. Who are those others and what are they doing
    here? For that matter, who are you? And finally, I wonder, what in hell am I doing here? I
    don’t fit.’
    ‘Not quite,’ said the old man. ‘But perhaps someday you will.’
    ‘Someday?’ said the young man. ‘If I don’t fit now, why not?’
    The old man kept walking, looking ahead, but not over at the younger man.
    ‘You’re much too young,’ he said. ‘How old are you?’
    ‘Thirty,’ said the young man.
    ‘That’s young. Wait until you’re fifty or sixty. Then maybe you’ll be ready
    to play the Twilight Greens.’
    ‘Is that what you call it, the Twilight Greens?’
    ‘Yes,’ said the old man. ‘Sometimes fellows
    like us go out and play really late, don’t come in till seven or eight o’clock; we have that
    need to just hit the ball and walk and hit again, then head in when we’re really tired.’
    ‘How do you know,’ said the young man, ‘when you’re ready to play the
    Twilight Greens?’
    ‘Well,’ said the old man, walking quietly, ‘we’re widowers. Not the usual
    kind. Everyone has heard of golf widows, women who are left at home when their husbands play
    golf all day Sunday, sometimes on Saturday, sometimes during the week; they get so caught up in
    it that they can’t quit. They become golfing machines and the wives wonder where in hell their
    husbands went. Well, in this case, we call ourselves the widowers; the wives are still at home,
    but the homes are cold, nobody lights a fire, meals are cooked, though not very often, and the
    beds are half empty. The widowers.’
    The young man said, ‘Widowers? I still don’t quite understand. Nobody’s dead,
    are they?’
    ‘No,’ the old man said. ‘When you say “golf widows,” it means women left at
    home when men go out to play golf. In this case, “widowers” means men who have in fact widowed
    themselves from their homes.’
    The young man mused for a moment and then said, ‘But there are people at
    home? There is a woman in each house, yes?’
    ‘Oh yes,’ said the old man. ‘They are there. They are there. But…’
    ‘But what?’ said the young man.
    ‘Well, look at it this way,’ said the old man, still walking quietly and
    looking off into the Twilight Greens. ‘For whatever reason, we come here at twilight, onto the
    fairway. Maybe because at home there is too little talk, or too much. Too much pillow talk, or
    too little. Too many children, or not enough children, or no children at all. All sorts of
    excuses. Too much money, not enough. Whatever the reason, all of a sudden these loners here
    have discovered that a good place to be as the sun goes down is out on the fairway, playing
    alone, hitting the ball, and following it into the fading light.’
    ‘I see,’ said the young man.
    ‘I’m not quite sure that you do.’
    ‘No,’ said the young man, ‘I do indeed, I do indeed. But I