It rained constantly for three straight days. I felt like a shut-in and I needed to get the hell out. I decided to go to the Timberline, a gay and lesbian country western bar. It was the first place I had gone to with some friends, and I liked its friendly atmosphere. I ran out to my truck, got in and started it up. Fortunately, it didn't take long for the cab to get warm.
I pulled into the full parking lot and found an empty space. I ran across the gravel and up the wooden steps. I proceeded to shake the rain from my jacket dry. I tried to avoid saturating the woman taking the two-dollar cover at the door.
The night was still young and the dance floor sparse. It was possible that the rain would keep all but the die-hard two-steppers from coming out. I scanned for familiar faces as I made my way to the bar.
While I waited for my Calistoga with lime, I noticed the pool table had no takers.
"Kind of quiet tonight?" I asked.
The bartender, smiled. The blue and green striped western shirt she wore complimented her dark brown eyes. "It's still early. Give it a couple hours, and you'll have to stand in line to order your next drink."
I laughed as I rebutted, "Then I better hurry, you might run out of water."
"You're new, I haven't seen you before," she inquired.
"Bet you say that to all the girls," I replied.
"Not to all of them," she said, as I paid for my drink.
"Thanks, I'll try to remember that," I ended as I left her a tip.
I walked over to the pool table and set down my drink. I reached into my pocket for two quarters. I placed the coins and pulled the lever; the balls dropped loudly. I chalked up a 20-ounce cue and broke. The sound echoed as the balls scattered. I began to shoot solids and clear the table. As I leaned over to shoot the six-ball, I caught a glimpse of a woman standing near the opposite corner of the table.
There she was, in her blazing glory. Her blue eyes sparkled like crystal, her light brown hair layered, cut just above her shoulders. Her dark blue jeans were snug, and outlined the curves in all of the right places. She wore a tight fitting white oxford shirt, the collar tips silver, accompanied by a black suede vest. The bolo tie held a slice of turquoise stone in place. I felt underdressed in my jeans and polo shirt.
"Taking challengers?" she asked.
"Are you any good?" I teased.
"It all depends, are we talking about playing pool?"
That caught me off-guard. I had not been single for a while and I forgot what it could be like out there in the world.
"Yeah, we're talking about pool. I'll be done in a minute," I answered.
I finished the last few shots and she racked for the next game. As I placed the cue ball to break, she asked me how old I was. I was amused.
"You want to know how old I am? You don't even know my name," I said.
I broke open the rack and knocked in two, one of each. Choosing to go with solids again, I pocketed a couple before I headed back to our conversation.
"Ok, fair enough, then," she said. "What is your name?"
"I'm 36." I replied. "Are you gonna shoot pool, or what?"
That quickly ended the conversation and she went to look for a cue stick.
As I took another shot, I miscued and scratched. I could not keep my eyes from her as she searched the rack for a cue. Her cute little butt rounded out the seat of her jeans.
She came back to the table, empty-handed and announced, "All of those cues are shit, how about sharing yours?"
Not a usual custom with me, I agreed to share. "Oh, and by the way, I don't usually let perfect strangers use my cue, so how 'bout you tell me your name?"
