I knew it was going to be a good night. I had a feeling. I had run into some girlfriends of mine downtown, and we decided to go out “skeezin.” Seriously. I hadn’t even ordered my first drink before he started talking to me at the bar. He tried to buy my drink when the bartender showed up, but I declined. He and I talked at the bar for awhile, then made our way to a corner table while the girls worked the dance floor. He bought me a couple more drinks. He was young, but not too young. I told him he looked 19, I checked his ID. No, he really was 23.
When he brought back round two (or was it three?), I noticed he was wearing a bathing suit. Really? Yeah, he’d been on the river earlier that day. OK. Whatever. He was cute. Tall. Dimpled chin. I could forgive him. He knew my favorite bands. Before long, we were making out. That got boring, so he asked if I wanted to see his place. Oh sure, why not?
We get in his truck. I asked where we were going. “To Booneytown.” Seriously? Booneytown is about 20 miles out of town. Fairly secluded. I also don’t have my cell phone on me. I’d left it at my house. Ah, well. Time to take chances, and this kid was just so babyfaced. A face to trust.
We were about 10 miles out of town when it hit me. I went out on the wrong night. The wrong week, actually.
“Oh, my,” I said, “I just remembered something.”
He looked across the pickup seat at me, his drunken Mrs. Robinson, with his shiny, excited blue eyes.
“What’s that, June?”
His hand was on my thigh. I noted that he was sober enough to drive and to remember my name.
“Well. I’m on my period.”
“Oh,” he said, “OK,” and looked back at the road. Still smiling, still tapping the steering wheel with his left hand.
OK, then. I shrugged. When we got to his house, I was relieved to find that he had black sheets. It was a good night.