‘Only one other time had been so ominous: the Wednesday in October of 1962 when Kennedy had faced Kruschev over Cuba. Piet had had a golf date with Roger Guerin. They agreed not to cancel. “As good a way to go as any,” Roger had said over the phone. Stern occasions suited him. As Piet drove north to the course, the Bay View, he heard on the radio that the first Russian ship was approaching the blockade. They teed off into an utterly clear afternoon and between shots glanced at the sky for Russian bombers. Chicago and Detroit would go first and probably there would be shouts from the clubhouse when the bulletins began coming in.There was almost nobody else on the course. It felt like the great rolling green deck of a ship, sunshine glinting on the turning foliage. As Americans they had enjoyed their nation’s luxurious ride and now they shared the privilege of going down with her. Roger, with his tight angry swing, concentrating with knit brows on every shot, finished the day under ninety. Piet had played less well. He had been too happy. He played best, swung easiest, with a hangover or a cold. He had been distracted by the heavensent glisten of things— of fairway grass and fallen leaves and leaning flags— seen against the onyx immanence of death, against the vivid transparence of the sky in which planes might materialize.’

—from Couples, by John Updike