I’d been drinking at the local dance club for hours. The Pepper Mill had its fair share of patrons, but I found it lacking for a standard Saturday night. I stood up to leave and was stopped dead in my tracks.
She hit the scene like a Betamax player: born in 1975 and like nothing I’d ever seen before. With her hair all in place and the perfect smattering of makeup, she could pass for late 20’s. Her curves were perfectly insane. She had a rack that stood out like a prism at noon on a cloudless day. The slight sheer in the black material of her top hinted at a ruby red bra. Her jeans were nearly painted on her generous backside. The platform heels she was wearing had no business on the dance floor unless you were on Dancing with the Stars.
I tried to gather my jaw off the floor. Her confidence and youthful looks left me feeling like an antique typewriter missing the letter Q. How could it be that she looked like that? I panicked and headed for the door.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t make a clean escape. Her eyes caught up with mine. She half strutted – half stalked her way over to where I was standing. She gave a crooked grin and said, “How’s it going, Buckaroo?”
I cringed at the old endearment. Over twenty years had passed since high school, and in that moment I realized the error of my ancient decisions. Back then, she had been quiet and plain. I dumped her for the head cheerleader because that’s what was expected from the star basketball player. I knew it would crush her, and I felt badly about it. Now here she was looking like a million dollars. And me? I just looked old and broken.
“Hey, Kansas,” I replied.
“Buy me a drink, you fool,” she teased and headed to the bar.
Maybe it just takes a couple decades for second chances to roll around.