TEMPTRESS

VIII.

ANGÈLE JOSÉPHINE MONET LAURENT CHASTIN - TOULOUSE, FRANCE 1968

While her brothers were out 'filmmaking', she made her way to the Country Club which, thankfully, wasn't too busy. There weren't the usual groups of women sitting at the cafe gossiping about their children or the businessmen surrounding the golf course. She was also thankful the clothing shop at the club was open for her to buy something to wear and rent out golfing gears. She had gone out with Julien a couple of time to go golfing outside of Paris, but she never really did it seriously. Now, she was going to attempt it on her own.

She placed the ball on the grass and held her stick carefully, she carefully swung and hit the ball as hard as it could. She watched, lowering the stick only to groan when the ball landed flat into the sand. "Shoot." She mumbled and tried again. "Why can't I get it right?" She mumbled.

"It's 'cause you're swinging to hard." She heard someone say from behind her in a British English accent. She turned around, her attention turning towards the voice. Her eyes falling on a tall figure behind her. The man was wearing a dark green polo shirt and beige golf pants, he had his golf stick in his hands and cautiously took a step forward. "And not in the right direction."

She was taken away by the English and didn't know how to respond right away. She did speak fluent English; however, she'd hadn't practiced it in a while and his accent suddenly intimidated her. A feeling she didn't like. "Oh." She replied and grabbed a new ball, setting them on the white tee.

She tried again hitting it again but this time. The golf ball decided to fall into the small pod. Why are there even pods near golf courses? She heard the brunette man chuckle which made her look at him with an irritated look on her face. "Do you need help?" She asked.

"No, no, just... You're the only entertaining thing to watch and my time is done so." He said. If she could hit him, she would, he just looked too tall and too fit to do so.

"Ha." She mumbled. She didn't even want to try again for the eighth time.

"Here, I can show you." He said, approaching her. She took a step back. She knows men, there some who just don't back down and he was one of them.

She sat down at the down at the cafe, re-reading through the menu and watched the few golfers swing their sticks against the balls hitting it far down the fields. How were they so good? Two white cups of coffee were set down on top of the wooden table. The green-eyed man pulled out the chair and sat down. "So, what's your name?" He asked.

"Angele." She answered. "Yours?"

"Angele, that is a gorgeous name. It suits you well. I'm Ethan."

She nodded slowly, thanking him quietly. "Ethan." She repeated. "You're British?" She asked pointing out his recognizable accent. Now that he was sitting in front of her, she didn't really want the conversation to die down and it being awkward. Awkwardness was something that rapidly felt suffocating, rather avoid it that sit in silence that would make you claustrophobic.

"From London." He took a sip from his cup. "Are you from around here?"