When Sparks Fly

“I can definitely get on board with that.”

I cut the engine and hop out of the driver’s seat so I can help her get out of the SUV. She doesn’t need much in the way of assistance anymore. And her arm is almost healed now, so she can at least use the cast to brace herself, if nothing else.

I pay for two rounds of mini putt, and we join a few families with young kids on the putting green. I take a couple of pictures of Avery trying to set up her ball, and then a video of her working out the logistics of putting while balanced on one leg and relying on her nondominant hand. “And up next is world-class putter Avery Spark. Avery is facing some unique challenges and is currently using a new move called the flamingo putt. Trademarking that baby now because I’m positive it’s going to be the mini putt move of the century.”

She looks half-annoyed, half-amused. “Is the commentary necessary?”

“It absolutely is, Miss Spark. How else will the world be able to identify the magic that is the flamingo if we don’t capture it on film? You are witnessing history right here, the flamingo, trademarked.”

Avery shakes her head but focuses on the ball, expression turning serious as she swings a couple of times. Avery has always been super competitive, and she hates losing. It’s why I love playing on the same team with her.

She hits the ball down the strip of turf, and it circles the hole once, nearly jumps out, but manages to circle again before it falls in.

“Hole in one on the first try, ladies and gentlemen! If ever there was a lesson to be learned here, it’s that Avery Spark can overcome any obstacle!” I end the video and hand Avery the crutch.

“That’s orgasm number one. And don’t think I won’t keep a running tally.” She smirks.

“I absolutely expect you to cash in on every single one of those.” I kiss the end of her nose, then look around, remembering that we’re in a public place.

Avery doesn’t seem to notice or care. “Can I see the video?” she asks as we move to the next hole and I set up my ball since I’m up first.

“Sure.” I pass her my phone and tee up. It takes me three shots before I land the ball in the hole, but I don’t really care. All I want is to give Avery a reason to smile.

We spend the next hour running through the course. After about seven holes Avery’s game starts to suffer, likely because it takes a lot of physical energy for her to maintain her balance, and while she’s been using her crutch more and more, and doing all the doctor recommended exercises, she’s still spent the past month doing more sitting and lying down than moving around.

She’s determined, though, and we finish the eighteenth hole, although it takes her seven shots to get the ball in. On the way home we stop for ice cream—as promised—and by the time we get up to the condo, she’s bagged and ends up passing out on the couch.

By ten she’s still sawing logs, so I carry her to bed and leave a snack for her, in case she wakes up hungry.

* * *

Two days later I knock on Avery’s door at 10 a.m. She’s usually up by now, and while I’ve been a regular provider of the orgasms as of late, I still respect her privacy.

“I’m decent; you can come in,” she calls out.

I throw the door open. “Well, that’s unfortunate.”

She’s sitting up in bed, hair a mess, laptop settled on her lap pad, three chocolate-covered granola bar wrappers strewn across her comforter. There’s a smear of chocolate on her right cheek.

“Breakfast of champions, I see.”

“They were in my nightstand and only one month expired. Getting out of bed was far too much work, and I already have enough of that to deal with so I figured, what harm could it do?” She covers her mouth and stifles a yawn.

“Have you had a coffee yet?” I nod to the mug on the nightstand.

I know the answer to that is no because I’ve been sitting at the dining room table since seven, and she has yet to make an appearance. She picks up the mug—it’s from yesterday—and brings it to her lips. She tips it back and makes a face as she sets it down.

“How about this? I will get you a beautiful, fresh, not cold and twenty-four-hours’-old coffee, if you finish whatever you’re doing and get dressed.”

She groans and rolls her eyes like a teenager. “What do you have planned now? My legs still ache from mini putt.”

“Today will be way more chill. And we’ll bring the chair along. Get your ass out of bed so we can make some IG-worthy videos. The last one has like five thousand likes and hundreds of comments.”