Red Boots

Dance partners are hard to find for a single woman in her eighth decade.

I was waiting, next in line, at our little Mariposa Post Office and found myself examining the back of the man in front of me, while he transacted his business with the clerk behind the counter. He looked to be about six feet tall, carried perhaps 180 pounds, and was wearing a cowboy shirt and pants with shiny, highly polished, bright red boots. They dazzled my eyes and my spirit.

As he turned away from the counter I said to him, “You have red boots!”

He pointed to the brass name tag on his shirt pocket. “Yes, and that’s my name, Red Boots.” Sure enough, the name Red Boots was on the badge.

“Do you dance?” I asked, shoving my package at the lady behind the counter.

“Yes.”

“Do you have a partner?”

“No.”

“Would you like one?’

“Yes. What’s your telephone number?”

By that time I had finished my postal business, and we moved to the unoccupied counter at the next window. We exchanged telephone numbers and names. He started to leave, and then turned back to look me in the eye.

“Do you smoke?”

“No.”

“Do you drink?”

“No.”

“Do you go Dutch?”

“Yes.”

“Good. You’re on!”

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