Evelyn was her name. I could see across that Elk’s dancehall that she was part Cheyenne: high, round cheekbones, deep, full eyes — very dark. She smiled. And we danced. My hand at her back, her hand on my shoulder. She was a receptionist for a car dealer. Born in Laramie. And she had the sweetest, open smile. And we danced ’round that floor and laughed. She’d never been out of Wyoming before. Had a dream about going to Disney World, seeing palm trees. Her parents were dead. She had a brother in jail for robbing a grocery store and a sister with seven kids somewhere in Texas and her eyes caught the light and green turquoise flashed at her throat, and we danced. ‘Til the music stopped.
And I kissed her. And she smiled. And I asked her for the next dance.
And she said yes.