Oh, but he was handsome!
Curvaceous arms sweeping forward
as he reached the golden lager
on the bar next to me.

Our eyes met, and he,
perplexed by my gaze
jostled a bit of a spill
to wet my breasts.

“It’s ok. I’m fine.” I laughed,
as his ears turned all shades
of red, and his smile turned
all shades of lust.

“David Bradley, U.S. Forest Ranger.”
I pointed at the periwinkle pin
still on his green button shirt –
the one hiding a sure six pack.

“And you are…?” he smiled.

“Emily,” I almost whispered,
breathless, heart pounding
as if teetering near the window
of a Chicago skyscraper.

“Mmm, sourdough!” he gushed.

“I’m sorry?” leaning closer,
“What’s sourdough
but second hand yeast?”
and thoughts of the song.

“I love sourdough!”

He whispered across me,
into a cloud of sliced bread.
A generous pub keeps drunks fed
on more than needle thin pretzels.

“What the hell are gumboots?” he asked.

A beat, then two or three,
as I wondered of his sanity,
and if his musculature was
worth another crazy dude vanity.

“Over there on that storefront,” he pointed at the window.

Sure enough, a sign spread diagonally
advertised “Gumboots lessons! Half off!
This week only!” It was a dance hall.
“Looks interesting,” I replied, wanting to faint.