About (Harry Styles)

1.

"You were right. You do suck at this," my best friend teases me after the little, white ball that I swung with the stick, misses the tiny hole by ten feet.

Okay, more like twenty feet.

I trudge over to the black golf bag, grab the largest stick available so that I can whack him with it. He promised me he wouldn't tease me this time.

I forget what the golf club is called, even though the golf expert here has told me the name of it countless times.

I figure since I'm no good at the sport anyway, what's the point in wasting my brain storage on it.

Once he realizes what I'm trying to do, he backs away quickly, an amused grin intact on his lips.

"Okay, okay," the buzz cut boy surrenders, his hands extended out in front of him, his grin annoying as ever. I drop the club back into the bag and he warily adds, "I'm sorry for telling you the truth."

"You promised me that you wouldn't make fun of me," I warn him. My warning is unconvincing as I, too, am wearing a smile on my face.

We end up in a cat and mouse chase around the green in attempt that I smack some decency into his head. Fortunately for him, my hand never manages to make any contact since his height is way beyond mine. I think it's completely unfair, considering he's two years younger than I am. I do, however, regard myself as pretty tall for a woman.

After chasing my best friend for about a minute around the our part of the course, a burly man in all black approaches us, telling us to hurry up and finish our hole. Apparently, we were holding up the line of next golfers.

Marco and I both apologize to him before he jogs off. And like I always do, I rave to Marco about their British accents. Their accents never get boring to listen to!

For the past nine weeks of this past semester, he reacted the same way every time I did this. He would roll his eyes and shake his head slowly. And when I attempt to do the accent in a public place, which my British accent is pretty legit, Marco would burst my bubble and tell me that I would never pass for a native Brit since I absolutely despise tea. But then I criticize him for stereotyping, and he lets me win the quarrel.

I quickly swat at Marco's arm and run off to finish what I started while laughing obnoxiously and triumphantly.

When we finally make it to the last hole, the London sun is setting, painting the sky a bright orange hue. Marco makes an eagle, or whichever bird he calls it, and he confidently shrugs his shoulders, mentally saying to me "I don't know how I do it."

One shot. He made it in one freaking shot. Seriously. This guy is a freaking robot.

Marco is the type of guy who is good at everything. I mean, everything. The athletic genius plays multiple of musical instruments. He's always receiving the highest score on tests and finals. He finishes his ten page papers on time, sometimes even weeks before the due date. The guy is a freaking Beethoven mixed with Einstein, Tiger Woods, and David Beckham.

Plus he is not bad to look at.

I even developed a theory that Marco might be a robot disguised as a human to take over Earth. I highly doubt it though. The Marco I know would never intentionally hurt anyone. Despite what he's been through.

"I shouldn't have let you convinced me to come here," I say to Marco as he takes off his golfing gloves and rearranges the golf clubs in the bag from smallest to largest.

I forgot to mention that Marco is quite the neat freak. Freak is too extreme. Neat friend. Marco is quite the neat friend.

"Oh, come on. Give yourself a little credit. This is only your fourth time playing .. And you have to admit it was fun watching you try to swing."