Dance Hall Casting Call

Her last casting call had gone like too many predictably do. He had made his move, she had (with feigned enthusiasm,) "let him," and then she had not gotten the part, despite her co-operation.

Coral Kent was looking for "Amanda Hugankiss." As she stood in the dark line for Circus Disco, vainly working a lucky penny over a scratch-off, two large hands unexpectedly grasped her midriff. Surprised, she cooperated as they assisted her in stepping a little to the left, as a large VIP eased ahead in the line. They came a smidgen to far forward, a fraction too far down, and lingered a split second too long before completing the operation by releasing her.

She turned to see who might have "turned her on," prepared to slap his face. The rakish figure that filled her eye stole her intent away and she adjusted her under wire as nature took its course. For revenge, she turned her right foot 40 degrees outward like a ballerina, bent her knee, and rotated it 2 or 3 inches further from the other. She lowered "dark," glasses for dramatic effect, and peered at him over the tops of the lenses. They were the yellow kind, that merely improve contrast (her daddy called them "shooting glasses,") and she was little impeded to glance downward through them (as nature took it's course on him in his turn,) and his right hand went into his pocket as _he_ adjusted.

He had on a Stetson Cowboy Hat, and Justin Boots, and his dark eyes betrayed little as she searched for pupil dilation. The stubble, his stance, and a barely noticeable set of "love handles," marked him not as a "boy," but as a "man."

"That's an intricate design on the pocket of your jeans," he introduced himself. "It draws... " He raised his eyes to meet hers, "...the eye," he finished.

Still flushed with her initial reaction, she spoke with ambitions of telling him off. Alas, it was not a snappy come-back. "Do you think my Ropers complement them well?" she inquired meekly, but with some art.

He reset his hat with his right hand as he used this excuse to look her up and down. He obviously had an appetite, and she had a feeling that she wouldn't mind being dinner. "Love 'em to death," was his chosen rejoinder.

The line chose that moment to shrink to nothing. Still flushed, she flashed a perfect set of pearly whites at the bouncer and said with some bravado, "He's with me."

It had happened before, but not reliably, and she was a little surprised when he waved them both through. Her forward "John Wayne," was not a hick, and Lincoln made brief appearance by way of thanks. They approached the bar together. She was in a generous mood, and drew her own Lincoln unobtrusively from her poche. She put him to the test. "Would you DIE for your country?" she asked, her $20 bill still hidden from his view.

His eyes wavered neither right nor left. "I would," he replied, appealing to brevity for emphasis.

"Pour the man a Blood Mary," she announced loudly to anyone who could hear. "...and for me a Martini, teeny but _bone_ dry!" If he played his cards right, he'd soon draw to fill an inside straight.