Oblivious to the laughter and clinking glasses, Alex studied the painting behind the bar – a matador dressed in black and gold, his scarlet cape extended, his back arched, and his sword raised. A señorita in flamenco dress rested on his shoulder.
“What’s wrong with that picture?” he thought. He lifted his mug, drained the last of the Miller draft, then slammed the mug down with a flash of insight. “No bull. There’s no bull. And what’s that woman doing in a bull ring?”
A waitress passed with a tray of sizzling steaks, but Alex noticed neither the sizzle nor the lingering aroma. He waived the empty mug. “Another one, Jimmy.”
The bartender hustled to the tap. Amber liquid gushed and foamed over the icy top.
“Here you go, sir,” said Jimmy.
“Jimmy, why do women always go for the matador?”
“Sir?”
“The matador. Why the matador?”
“Uh . . . maybe it’s the tights, sir.” Jimmy wiped his hands on his apron. “Women like to look too, you know.” A call from down the bar sent Jimmy hurrying away.
Tights? Alex thought of his own mid-section – not as slim as it once was. Sondra had been a good cook. Man, that chocolate mousse! And her marinara sauce. . . thick and chunky, oozing onto a mound of pasta. She cooked as good as she nagged, so the marriage had been as hard on his waistline as on his psyche. Didn’t seem like two years since the divorce.
Two seats down from Alex, a young couple huddled over their drinks. The woman laughed from time to time.
Alex nursed his beer. No, not the tights. It’s the action – the flaming cape, the swinging sword, the charging bull, the cheers. “Ole!” he said.
The couple twisted to look at him. The woman snickered, then returned her attention to the man, giving him a playful nudge.
“I’ve always been a man of action,” Alex thought. “Star quarterback in school. . . well, back up quarterback. Almost the same thing. Sondra and I shot the rapids in Boquillas. With the drought the river didn’t have white water. . . but still . . . action. Action is lacking in my life.” Alex set his mug down firmly. “I can fix that.”
It was early yet. The rodeo was in town. Alex wasn’t interested in watching a bunch of guys in tight blue jeans bust broncos, but there was action on the midway and in the livestock barns. Alex slapped money on the bar. “Thanks, Jimmy.”
“You’re welcome,” said Jimmy. He picked up the bills, fanned them out, smiled then waved goodbye.
Alex strode toward the exit, pausing only to open the door for two gray-haired ladies in pantsuits, giggling like teenagers. He gave them a deep bow and walked out behind them.
An hour later, he stood on the midway. “Born To Be Wild” blared from the speakers at the ticket booth behind him. Kids screamed from atop the roller coaster. He ambled toward the show barns. Vendors hawked hot dogs, snow cones and cotton candy. The aroma of roasting peanuts and simmering chili mingled with faint smells of hay and animals from the barns.
Alex spied a dart shoot. “My favorite,” he thought. He plunked down his money and took three darts from the boy attending the booth. They had no points but were weighted nicely. He stepped into an empty slot and fired the first dart straight at the bull’s eye, but he nearly hit the attendant. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” he said.
“No problem,” said the attendant, moving farther toward the edge of the booth.
The second dart flew over the backboard. Alex focused on his last shot, so much so that he hardly noticed the dark-haired woman in a burgundy sweater who stepped into the slot next to him. On the third try, Alex hit the yellow outer ring and a bell clanged.
“Good going,” said the attendant, handing him a plastic yo-yo.
Alex’s face fell, but he pocketed the toy and pulled himself up. “Now I’m getting the hang of it.” He bought three more darts.
A bell clanged multiple times. He glanced at the woman in burgundy. She had hit a bull’s eye, and lights flashed all around the dartboard.
“Nice job,” said Alex.
“Thanks,” she said. “My dad taught me. He loved these games.” Her face was plain, but her eyes sparkled with midway lights.
The attendant handed her a giant teddy bear and asked, “Want another round?”
She hesitated, teddy bear swallowing her upper body.
“Uh,” Alex said, “would you like me to hold that for you?” Then he added, “Actually, you can have these darts.” He extended his arms to take the bear and hand her the darts.
She paused, laughed then said, “Why not.”
Again, she nailed the bull’s eye on the first throw.
“Wow,” said the attendant.
Alex echoed the sentiment.
The attendant said, “The bear’s our best prize. You can have another bear or something else if you want.”
“I’ll take another bear.” She turned to Alex. “I have two nieces.” She took the second bear. “I think I need to take these to the car.” She reached for the bear Alex held.
“No, no,” he said. “I’ll carry it for you.”
As they walked to the car to deposit the giant bears, Alex couldn’t help but think. His ex had a niece and a nephew, but she would have never given her prize to either of them. In fact, he couldn’t even remember her giving them birthday presents. Did she even send cards?
Alex learned that the woman in burgundy was Melinda. When he complimented her on the sweater, he further learned that her sister-in-law, who was both stylish and thoughtful, had given her the sweater for Christmas. Alex and Melinda returned to the midway and rode the carousel – neither wanted to ride the roller coaster or tilt a whirl – and bought hotdogs. He had chili on his, she did not. He spilled chili on his shirt, she grabbed napkins to sop it up. She didn’t shriek at him or call him clumsy. That was a nice touch. They had cotton candy then checked out the cattle in the show barns. After the cattle, they moved on to lambs, goats, chickens, but Melinda oohed and ahed over the rabbits most of all. Alex stuck his finger into a cage to rub a bunny’s nose, but in a flash the bunny snapped the finger and drew blood. Melinda hurried to find more napkins.
They ended the evening chatting over espressos at Starbucks. A question gnawed at Alex, but he didn’t know how to ask. Finally he blurted out, “Why do women like matadors?”
“Uh. . . I didn’t know . . . I don’t think women even think about matadors . . . except maybe in Spain.”
Now Alex wished he hadn’t asked, but he bumbled on. “I mean, the tights and all.”
Melinda smiled then chuckled. “I suppose they’re sexy. . . . I’ve never seen a real matador. The pictures I’ve seen are more like caricatures. But who am I to say?”
Alex thought, “Caricatures?”
Then he heard Melinda say, “I need to get home. Tomorrow’s a workday.” She reached for her purse. “This was fun.”
Alex panicked. He was no matador – or cowboy either for that matter – but he charged in. “Uh, Melinda, I’d like to see you again.” He fumbled for his cell phone. “Any chance I can have your number?”
“Only if I can have yours.”
They exchanged numbers, then Alex struggled to his feet and stuck out his hand. Melinda smiled, took his hand, leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “I hope I’ll see you soon,” she said.
“What’s wrong with that picture?” he thought. He lifted his mug, drained the last of the Miller draft, then slammed the mug down with a flash of insight. “No bull. There’s no bull. And what’s that woman doing in a bull ring?”
A waitress passed with a tray of sizzling steaks, but Alex noticed neither the sizzle nor the lingering aroma. He waived the empty mug. “Another one, Jimmy.”
The bartender hustled to the tap. Amber liquid gushed and foamed over the icy top.
“Here you go, sir,” said Jimmy.
“Jimmy, why do women always go for the matador?”
“Sir?”
“The matador. Why the matador?”
“Uh . . . maybe it’s the tights, sir.” Jimmy wiped his hands on his apron. “Women like to look too, you know.” A call from down the bar sent Jimmy hurrying away.
Tights? Alex thought of his own mid-section – not as slim as it once was. Sondra had been a good cook. Man, that chocolate mousse! And her marinara sauce. . . thick and chunky, oozing onto a mound of pasta. She cooked as good as she nagged, so the marriage had been as hard on his waistline as on his psyche. Didn’t seem like two years since the divorce.
Two seats down from Alex, a young couple huddled over their drinks. The woman laughed from time to time.
Alex nursed his beer. No, not the tights. It’s the action – the flaming cape, the swinging sword, the charging bull, the cheers. “Ole!” he said.
The couple twisted to look at him. The woman snickered, then returned her attention to the man, giving him a playful nudge.
“I’ve always been a man of action,” Alex thought. “Star quarterback in school. . . well, back up quarterback. Almost the same thing. Sondra and I shot the rapids in Boquillas. With the drought the river didn’t have white water. . . but still . . . action. Action is lacking in my life.” Alex set his mug down firmly. “I can fix that.”
It was early yet. The rodeo was in town. Alex wasn’t interested in watching a bunch of guys in tight blue jeans bust broncos, but there was action on the midway and in the livestock barns. Alex slapped money on the bar. “Thanks, Jimmy.”
“You’re welcome,” said Jimmy. He picked up the bills, fanned them out, smiled then waved goodbye.
Alex strode toward the exit, pausing only to open the door for two gray-haired ladies in pantsuits, giggling like teenagers. He gave them a deep bow and walked out behind them.
An hour later, he stood on the midway. “Born To Be Wild” blared from the speakers at the ticket booth behind him. Kids screamed from atop the roller coaster. He ambled toward the show barns. Vendors hawked hot dogs, snow cones and cotton candy. The aroma of roasting peanuts and simmering chili mingled with faint smells of hay and animals from the barns.
Alex spied a dart shoot. “My favorite,” he thought. He plunked down his money and took three darts from the boy attending the booth. They had no points but were weighted nicely. He stepped into an empty slot and fired the first dart straight at the bull’s eye, but he nearly hit the attendant. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” he said.
“No problem,” said the attendant, moving farther toward the edge of the booth.
The second dart flew over the backboard. Alex focused on his last shot, so much so that he hardly noticed the dark-haired woman in a burgundy sweater who stepped into the slot next to him. On the third try, Alex hit the yellow outer ring and a bell clanged.
“Good going,” said the attendant, handing him a plastic yo-yo.
Alex’s face fell, but he pocketed the toy and pulled himself up. “Now I’m getting the hang of it.” He bought three more darts.
A bell clanged multiple times. He glanced at the woman in burgundy. She had hit a bull’s eye, and lights flashed all around the dartboard.
“Nice job,” said Alex.
“Thanks,” she said. “My dad taught me. He loved these games.” Her face was plain, but her eyes sparkled with midway lights.
The attendant handed her a giant teddy bear and asked, “Want another round?”
She hesitated, teddy bear swallowing her upper body.
“Uh,” Alex said, “would you like me to hold that for you?” Then he added, “Actually, you can have these darts.” He extended his arms to take the bear and hand her the darts.
She paused, laughed then said, “Why not.”
Again, she nailed the bull’s eye on the first throw.
“Wow,” said the attendant.
Alex echoed the sentiment.
The attendant said, “The bear’s our best prize. You can have another bear or something else if you want.”
“I’ll take another bear.” She turned to Alex. “I have two nieces.” She took the second bear. “I think I need to take these to the car.” She reached for the bear Alex held.
“No, no,” he said. “I’ll carry it for you.”
As they walked to the car to deposit the giant bears, Alex couldn’t help but think. His ex had a niece and a nephew, but she would have never given her prize to either of them. In fact, he couldn’t even remember her giving them birthday presents. Did she even send cards?
Alex learned that the woman in burgundy was Melinda. When he complimented her on the sweater, he further learned that her sister-in-law, who was both stylish and thoughtful, had given her the sweater for Christmas. Alex and Melinda returned to the midway and rode the carousel – neither wanted to ride the roller coaster or tilt a whirl – and bought hotdogs. He had chili on his, she did not. He spilled chili on his shirt, she grabbed napkins to sop it up. She didn’t shriek at him or call him clumsy. That was a nice touch. They had cotton candy then checked out the cattle in the show barns. After the cattle, they moved on to lambs, goats, chickens, but Melinda oohed and ahed over the rabbits most of all. Alex stuck his finger into a cage to rub a bunny’s nose, but in a flash the bunny snapped the finger and drew blood. Melinda hurried to find more napkins.
They ended the evening chatting over espressos at Starbucks. A question gnawed at Alex, but he didn’t know how to ask. Finally he blurted out, “Why do women like matadors?”
“Uh. . . I didn’t know . . . I don’t think women even think about matadors . . . except maybe in Spain.”
Now Alex wished he hadn’t asked, but he bumbled on. “I mean, the tights and all.”
Melinda smiled then chuckled. “I suppose they’re sexy. . . . I’ve never seen a real matador. The pictures I’ve seen are more like caricatures. But who am I to say?”
Alex thought, “Caricatures?”
Then he heard Melinda say, “I need to get home. Tomorrow’s a workday.” She reached for her purse. “This was fun.”
Alex panicked. He was no matador – or cowboy either for that matter – but he charged in. “Uh, Melinda, I’d like to see you again.” He fumbled for his cell phone. “Any chance I can have your number?”
“Only if I can have yours.”
They exchanged numbers, then Alex struggled to his feet and stuck out his hand. Melinda smiled, took his hand, leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “I hope I’ll see you soon,” she said.
