“Sure, Ali. Let’s play a game.” His words are slow as blackstrap molasses. Like it’s too hot to speak more quickly and we have all the time in the world and time means something different down here anyway. And maybe it does, but he always speaks like that no matter where we are. Sometimes, like this time, it gives me chills.
I take a seat on the floor across from him, tucking my feet under me to the side. He carefully places his guitar in its stand at the end of the couch and slides down to the floor. His legs are out straight in front of him, one ankle crossed over the other, and he waits for me to start.
I give him an easy one first. “What’s the first thing I ever said to you?”
His soft pink lips curl in a smirk. He’s amused, wondering. His smirk says is this some kind of test?
I narrow my eyes at him. Only if you don’t pass they reply.
He huffs out a chuckle. Okay, okay, keep your skirt on it mutters.
“You walked up to me, in that dress there if I’m not mistaken,” he nods towards the thin layer of cotton that is the only thing I can bear to wear in this heat, “and you said, ‘You’ve kept me waiting a long time, cowboy.’”
My belly does a little flip flop as I remember what he looked like that night. Simple grey t-shirt that stretched across his back as he reached out for his drink. Blue jeans held up by a heavy buckle. Dusty, scuffed, and definitely worn-to-do-real-work cowboy boots on his feet. Shoes say a lot about a man.