Doomed romance

She crossed the threshold of the motel in Cowboy Country, in his arms. Lovely and slightly loony, with long black hair, she often said she was too young for him. But not that night.

The rear of the motel room sported a large glass door with a view to the mesquite grove where the ghost of Jesse James, or the Younger Boys, sailed silently. Maybe. You never know in those parts.

They had supper at a Yuppie restaurant in the small town nearby.

It was on a hillside that sloped down to a river’s edge. Really no more than a clear creek in the tall green trees of April.

Enjoying blackened catfish and green salads, they spoke little, touched fingers, and listened to the tinkling of silverware and wine glasses from other tables where more normal couples sat.

Later, back in the mesquite grove, they watched Bette Midler play Janis Joplin on TV and, after that, she danced shyly in shadows to music from the little stereo they had tossed into the pickup. He laid on the bed with his arms behind his head, smiling.

The next morning, the mesquite trees shone under sunlight, and they drove back to the Big City. It ended shortly after, leaving him distraught but with a passion for lovely Latinas that would drive him far south one day. To greener pastures and hot tortillas.

* * * *

(Here’s another tale of Victoria.)

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