“Remember Jason from UVA? I ran into him at the cleaners last week. We chatted in the parking lot for a few minutes and he was bragging about how many women he has had. He talks like he has more mistresses than Tiger Woods. What’s the big deal? Why does he deserve more than me?”

Martin re-focused on his putt. He hit the ball which badly missed the hole, rolling to a stop 4 feet beyond. “Shit! Damn you! My concentration’s gone to hell.

“So, what’s she like?”

“Dark. Sexy... Great.”

Martin shook his head. “Dammit, Wayne. How would you feel if Donna was sleeping around?”

“Good question. She doesn’t have it in her, though.”

+ + + +

Sitting in his bed at midnight, Wayne opened his laptop and lit a Marlboro. He logged onto www.redhawk.com and began to rant.

Who saw the goddamn Redskins play the Cowboys Sunday? Pitiful! I long ago shut off the ceaseless, inane chatter from the mindless commentators, but the on-field antics are deplorable. Even when the Redskins were behind by 24 points, their jungle bunnies jumped for ecstatic joy whenever they made a rare good play. Their cornerback looked like he was going to fracture a rib as hard as he was beating his chest and flexing his muscles, whooping a war dance and glowering over the wide receiver he’d just sent into a concussive state. Looked like a fucking gorilla.