Blind Date

When I opened the door that night, my smile, which once beamed radiantly across my face, was removed as quickly as a sweaty prom dress in a rusty Volvo.

         “Howdy, Little Lady,” he grinned at me with the stereotypical piece of straw hanging from his lip, fight for supremacy with the wad of tobacco crammed under his tongue.

         Cowboy boots. Hat. Belt buckle the size of an abdominal tumor. Check. Check. Freakin’ check. I bought a new dress – Anne Taylor. New shoes – from Belk. And he comes with dirt stains and manure on his Wranglers.

         “Um…. Chip, right?” Blasted internet.

         “Yes, M’am…as sure as I can lasso a bull in under 8 seconds.” He extended his hand revealing the black fingernails, crooked and chipped attached to dry and calloused hands. “Am I early?”

         “Uh… no…Let me get my shawl,” I said turning on my heels. “I was expecting someone… a little…” I couldn’t finish my thought. My head was completely devoid of enough words to form a complete sentence.

         “Shorter?” He laughed at his own joke. “That picture on the Interweb ain’t but the size of the good ol’ quarter.”

         “I meant to say… I was thinking…” What to do? What do say? “Am I overdressed?” I blurted out.

         “Nah, you’re right pretty, Little Lady. An apple in the sky.” He mused.

         I blushed – pathetic. “What time are the dinner reservations?” I asked, tucking my keys into my bag.

         “Don’t need no reservations for the traveling carnival.” He smiled.

         Oh hell.