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The suburb Memphis lives is a quiet one, considering the man himself. Trio looks up at the moderately-sized house and the corner of the moderately-sized suburban block and wonders how it manages to contain the breadth of Memphis’ personality. The only real sign of it is the garish 1921 boat peeking out from the tree-covered driveway, that is until the man himself leans out an open window, waving down at Trio like he’s trying to signal them to take third base.
“Hey there! You made it!”
“Your directions were sufficient,” says Trio.
“Memphis Longhand gives clear directions,” says Memphis, “Come on in, Memphis Longhand will meet you downstairs in a sec.”
Trio nods, heading towards the front door. Inside the house feels more reflective of Memphis, photos and awards and hard-light newspaper clipping crowding the walls. Trio pauses, feeling an odd jolt-rush in their circuits as they look up at the mantlepiece, where half an MVP award sits in pride of place.
Trio can hear Memphis thud down the stairs. There’s nothing noticeable, no sign of a major injury or pain, but they can hear the tiny fraction he’s off by, the slowing of the movements that enough to make the difference between a win and a crushing defeat in any game within the Orion Combine Mechanised Sports Association.
“I did not think you were allowed to keep this,” says Trio, without turning around.
“No one’s asked Memphis Longhand for it back yet,” says Memphis with a shrug. “They’ll probably want it in a museum one of these days. We made a pretty historical team.”
“We did,” says Trio, fondness coming in clear through their audio system.
Memphis claps a hand on their shoulder. “Come on. Memphis Longhand has something to show you.”
Trio allows themselves to be led, tilting their head to signal their equivalent of a smile. Memphis smiles back, and Trio feels the jolt-rush through their circuits again. It had taken Memphis a while to understand the meaning behind their movements, but once he’d gotten a grasp on it he’d never let go. Trio had been glad of it, to be understood on their own terms for once was as relaxing as it was a rarity.
They walk through the kitchen (similarly cluttered with memorabilia), to the backyard. Memphis steps back, making a wide gesture.
“So? What do you think?”
Trio narrows their visual lenses then widens them to take it in. “It appears you have turned your yard into a miniature golf course.”
Memphis laughs. “Memphis Longhand sure did!” He pauses. “So…” He puts his hands in his pockets and then takes them out, gesturing again at the yard. “Are you up for a game?”
“I thought you had retired.”
“Memphis Longhand is retired, not banned ,” says Memphis, “And who else would Memphis Longhand even want to play against?”
The jolt-rush is softer this time. If Trio had been built to be more sentimental, they would almost think they felt it in their chest.
“Very well,” says Trio, “You have the equipment?”
“Of course!”
Memphis steps away to retrieve two mini golf clubs. The colours of the clubs, Trio notes, are the same as the team colours when they had first faced off against one another. They tilt their head, taking the one with their former team’s colours. Memphis grins. He, too, has his own strange language that Trio had had to learn over the years.
Trio looks away from the brightly-coloured club to survey the course. “Where do we begin?”
“This way,” says Memphis, leading them away from the house, “Memphis Longhand put the last hole closest to the house so you don’t have to walk all the way back.”
“I’ve walked longer,” says Trio.
“So has Memphis Longhand,” says Memphis, “but Memphis Longhand doesn’t want to have to take a hike after every game, that’s why Memphis Longhand retired.”
They nod, and don’t push it. Trio’s hand not holding the club flexes, like it wants to reach out to touch Memphis’ arm, and Trio lets it. They’re retired, after all. They get to be their own person now.
Memphis stills, looking back at them. He slowly raises his hand to cover their’s for a moment before his hand falls back by his side. He swallows, tilting his head in the direction of the first hole. Trio nods, letting their own hand fall away from Memphis’ arm.
The warmth of his skin lingers on their metal as they walk.
“So we start here,” says Memphis, “and then it’s a winding path back, see?”
Trio follows Memphis’ pointing finger. They nod.
“It does not seem so different to the golf we have played together previously.”
Memphis gives them an enthusiastic nod. “Exactly!” He pauses. “Do you want to go first or do you want Memphis Longhand to remind you how it’s done?”
This time the jolt Trio feels is more familiar. They were built with a competitive streak after all.
“I will go first,” says Trio.
Memphis huffs a laugh, stepping back and gesturing them forward. Trio drops their ball, tilting their head as they calculate the angle, raising the club-
They hear Memphis shift behind them and they turn, narrowing their visual lens at him. “What?”
Memphis raises his hands. “Nothing.”
“It is something,” says Trio, “Or, you think it is something.”
“That’s just not how Memphis Longhand would grip the club for this shot.”
Trio looks down at their grip, which is perfect to the millimeter. “Oh really?”
“Yeah,” says Memphis, “Let Memphis Longhand show you.”
He steps forward. Trio moves to step back to give him room for whatever grandstanding he has planned, but instead Memphis gets close to them, covering their hand with his on the club.
Trio goes very still. They track the movement of Memphis’ throat as he swallows, a light flush rising to his cheeks.
“I was built to do this, I do not need you to help me,” says Trio.
Memphis keeps his hand on Trio’s. “You weren’t built to play golf, that’s just something you started doing to annoy me.”
“I started it because of two factors. The first is that it looked enjoyable.”
“And the other one?”
Trio pauses. “Because it would annoy you.”
Memphis lets out a bark of laughter. Trio’s head shifts from side to side, the jolt-rush pinging through their body.
“Memphis Longhand always suspected.”
“Well,” says Trio, “you were always fun to beat.” They paused. “And to win and lose with, too.”
Memphis’ grip on their hand tightens a fraction, then loosens a fraction. “So were you, even when you were going out of your way to ruin Memphis Longhand’s score streaks.”
“High scores don’t last forever.”
Memphis’ smile turns slightly lop-sided. “Don’t suppose sports would be much fun if they did.” He pauses, pressing his lips together for a moment. “Memphis Longhand had a pretty good time helping you beat everyone else’s for a little while there though.”
“You did more than help,” says Trio, “It was both of us together.” They think of the mantlepiece. “We were double MVPs for a reason.”
Memphis laughs, and Trio wiggles their head back and forth to laugh with him, the motion reminding them that Memphis’ hand is still intertwined with their’s on their golf club. The jolt curls around their audio circuits, making it hard to speak for a moment.
“Suppose you’re right,” says Memphis. He pauses. “We did make a good team there for a while. Pretty much unstoppable.”
Trio nods. “Of course. We were the best.”
“We really were!” says Memphis. His smile fades a little and he steps back, rubbing the back of his neck. “The reason… the reason Memphis Longhand invited you around today might have something to do with that.” He swallows. “You know. Teamwork is… it’s foundational, to any sport, but what we had- twenty-three championships speaks for itself, and Memphis Longhand thinks that you and Memphis Longhand… we had something great there, for a while, right?”
Trio nods again. “Yes.”
“Yes?” says Memphis, his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline.
Trio looks at him again, taking in the language of Memphis’ body. They tilt their head to the right, then the left, noting the flush in Memphis’ face and the nervous shuffling of his feet like he’s working up the nerve to go to bat in the last inning. They can see, as clearly as they could see him catching their ball the year their team lost to his, the question he wants to ask, the question he is asking through the language their bodies speak to one another.
Trio steps forward, taking his hand in their’s. Memphis looks up at them, opening his mouth and then closing it again, but Trio has heard everything they need to.
“Yes,” they say again.
Memphis looks down at their joined hands and then back up at their face, his smile growing wider and wider. They wiggle their head, and Memphis laughs, leaning his forehead against their shoulder bracket for a moment before he leans back.
“So,” says Trio, “What is it about my swing that you believe you can correct?”
“It’s too much to cover in one lesson,” says Memphis, waving a hand.
Trio hums. “I’m retired. I have time.”