The More Certain His Loss

Paul sits unmoving in front of the television. Sometimes he’s not sure he’s even breathing. He’s still, too still. Heart feels strong, so he knows he isn’t dead. Always good to check. But he couldn’t hear the TV. The voices seem muffled, but not. Strange.

He snatches the remote from the side table and turns up the volume.

Golf. He has every sports channel available, but for one purpose—golf. And always live, never after the fact, because he reads the scores and analysis on his tablet each morning, and it seems pretty lame to spend your time on something when you know the ending. And his wife wants TV time for her own shows, the home kind. Sandra never seems content with what they have, always wanting something prettier, neater, which is just fine by Paul, and after forty-five years, they’ve found their way to a life.

But the announcers—their words. Did he have the wrong language on? Maybe somehow he’s gotten into the Spanish language broadcast. Scheffler has the ball on the green at fourteen. Looks to make an eagle.

His tablet. Where’d it go? This’ll upset the fantasy golf rankings for sure. Paul didn’t put in much money this year, but it’s a matter of pride with the other guys on the floor. Sometimes they’d all watch together in the lounge at the end of the hall, but usually … usually Paul liked his own company. Yes, he had his pride; didn’t like showing his mess-ups to the guys.

He reaches for his can of Old Style. Takes a swig, wiping a dribble from his chin—what a slob—then looks back. Fiddles with the remote. He should be able to fix this, the words. But the buttons—they’ve moved, or he has the wrong remote. Looks to the doorway. Sandy. She would know.

Looks back to the table. Notices the ibuprofen—again. That’s right, his head. Nursing a headache from earlier, probably too much beer. But he forgot and there they are. He needs to take them—Sandy’ll be hopping mad if she comes back and finds them after he asked her for them.

Sinks the putt. Beautiful. Wow, his head hurts. The pills. Where’s Sandy? She’s bringing them, isn’t she? He looks at the side table—confused.

Men walking, walking on the grass. Swinging at the ball. Where’s Scheffler? Voices again.

He looks at his hand in his lap. The remote sits in his palm. Turn the volume down.

Wait. The young guy again … Scheffler. The trophy already? Thought he was on fifteen. The eagle on fifteen. Or it was twelve … no, not twelve.

Somebody on his arm, no his shoulder. Shaking his shoulder. The remote. It slides from his hand to the floor. Young guy, smiling. Talking in Spanish.

Looking left. Sandy. Yes, the pills. His arm is stuck at his side, doesn’t hurt, just stuck. He looks at his hand again, then at her face. She’s talking. Not Spanish, but a language he knows, but he doesn’t. She’s crying? Face red. Scared.

His heart is pounding now. Young guy. Smiling. Woman on his arm. Beautiful. Now, Sandy. Pulling on his arm. What?

Head hurts.

Young guy. Still smiling. Speaking Spanish.

His head.

Ibuprofen. Looking. She brought it. Where?

Looking. What color? The word. That dull color, like … what? Like—wet dirt.

Looking. The TV. But not. A window—of colors. Moving colors and sounds. No words. Confusing. Heart pounding. Head throbbing. Desperate. Trapped. She was …? Who?