Was he flushed from the dirt scraping his face? From struggling for breath? From what he presumed was an open come-on in the middle of this golf field?

… If there was any golf field to do that in, to be fair, it was this one.

Zechariah looked sharply back in disbelief, then furrowed his brow as he ran equations. He considered the question much of his circle considered when faced with crushing loneliness or another man (any man) who fancied men: how many drinks would he need to bed him?

“… Please get off of me,” Zechariah finally sighed.