on golf.

'of course, if she wanted to start something new, id understand,' harold admits sadly. 'time's winged chariot and all that. when i was her age, i got it into my head somehow i was going to die. i played golf every day all summer, convinced every round would be my last. cost a fortune.'

'and here you are.'

he nods. 'cured my slice, though. you should come out with marjory and me sometime.' his wife, by coincidence, is jacob rose's secretary.

'maybe this summer.'

'all in your head, golf,' harold muses. 'a thousand and one contingencies.'

'im looking for a game with just one contingency,' i tell him. 'two at the most.'

-richard russo, straight man