Spurs jingled like tiny alarm clocks as the doors of the Dusty Comet Saloon swung wide and in swaggered Hank “sure-thing” Mallory. He had a haircut that suggested confidence and boots that suggested poor decision-making. He tipped his black hat, scanned the room, and there she was at the bar: cool as creek water in August, sipping beer like it owed her rent.
“Howdy, did it hurt when you fell off your horse and into my evening?” The sentence limped out like a three-legged mule.
She blinked slowly, the universal sign for spiritual reboot.
“I didn’t fall,” she said. “I dismounted on purpose.”
Hank chuckled to fill the silence, which only made the silence expand like bread dough left too long in the sun. He tried again. “I’m smoother than a greased skillet in July.” Her eyebrow reached a higher tax bracket. Behind them, the bartender polished a glass and quietly took cover. Hank leaned on the bar in what he believed was a casual fashion. The bar did not agree and promptly squeaked. He continued anyway, heroically committed to poor choices. “What’s your name, angel?”
“Receipt,” she said.
“Receipt?”
“Because you’re about to learn from this.”
He grinned, believing this was flirting. It was not.
He attempted his big finish, the line that would surely seal his legend. “If you were a cattle brand, you’d be H-O-T.” At that moment his spurs hooked the stool leg. Gravity filed its claim. Hank went down in installments, hat first, pride second, entire cowboy third. He landed softly in a pile of peanuts and regret.
She slid off her stool, stepped neatly around him, and placed his hat back on his chest like a commemorative plaque.
“Good try, cowboy,” she said kindly. “Work on the lines. And the balance.”
She walked out into the starlight, queen of the evening. The saloon returned to its breathing. Hank lay there considering life, destiny, and whether peanut shells counted as a mattress. He finally stood, dusted himself off, and announced to the room, “That went great.”
The bartender nodded. “Like a wagon with square wheels.”
Hank smiled. “Same time tomorrow?”
“Please,” the bartender said, “for morale.”
And somewhere outside, the night air laughed softly, as if the prairie itself appreciated a man willing to fall down in public and call it romance.
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