…the trouble with tight slacks is the women what can’t wear ’em does and the women what can don’t…
Monroe D. Underwood
About four in the afternoon a beautifully assembled young lady strolled into the tavern.
She wore smoked glasses with saucer-sized lenses.
Her bosom strained impatiently against the glistening satin of her baby-blue blouse.
Her navy-blue knit slacks looked like they’d been applied with an airbrush.
She sat at the far end of the bar.
The bartender nearly bowed a tendon getting to her.
They talked for a couple of minutes.
He poured her a shot of bourbon with a short glass of water on the side.
She drank it without making a face.
She barely touched her water.
She smiled at me.
I smiled back.
I bought her a drink.
She drank it.
She bought me a drink.
I drank it.
I bought her a drink.
She stuck the tip of her tongue out at me.
It was very pink.
She wiggled it.
I fell off my barstool.
She went out.
The bartender helped me up.
I said who the hell was that?
He said that’s the granddaughter of the old broad who owns the football team.
He said her name is Ophelia Dodd.
He said she told me that she just bought the Radish River Radio and Television Shop.
He said she told me that she’ll be entering a chariot in the Annual Radish River Roman Chariot Race.