Quiet voices and the soft sound of wind in the leaves, punctuated by the pings and squeaks from the tennis courts, laughter, and the clatter of cutlery. Bright white linen tablecloths, sun glinting off crystal, tasteful snakes of perfectly cut flagstone cutting through manicured grass. The clubhouse sprawls under heavy oaks in the middle distance -- the driving range and course beyond.

Not bad.

Mr Schneider, the membership manager, spent an hour giving me a tour of the facility. It was a soft sell -- and it was very good. The facilities? Immaculate. The service? Impeccable. The membership list ... well, that's the real value of these kinds of things, isn't it?

Very impressive.

I take a sip of my iced tea, dab my lips with my napkin, then set it on the table next to my plate. Lunch was delicious, of course -- but the highlight of my afternoon is seated a few tables away.

You are, in a word, perfect.

I watch you closely from behind my sunglasses. You're seated with an older couple, and a young man about your age. I take it that this is your family -- the familiar closeness of brother and sister, the friendly pride of successful parents. You all laugh and drink and carry on, appearing not to have a worry in the world.

But you ... hah!

You're bored.

So dreadfully bored. Bored of these people, bored of appearances, bored with having everything except ... what?

You are stunningly beautiful in these surroundings; it's as if they were built for you ... but I don't think you want to have any part of it.

I stand up slowly, take a deep breath, smile, and walk toward the club house. As I pass your table, I look over the top of my sun glasses, catching your eye. Without breaking stride I give you a ridiculously big grin, cock an eyebrow, and nod towards the club house.

I don't think anyone else noticed.

I walk away, hoping you'll follow. It's a nice club, and I'm sure it would be a lovely place to spend the weekends, but now I know what I really want.

PM me.