Conversation in a Proper Saloon

It was one of those short, pointed conversations you can only have in a saloon in Virginia City—where the whiskey is old, the walls are older, and the stories older still.

I had just settled into a deep and meaningful relationship with my Old Fashioned when she strolled in like she owned the place and took the stool beside me. The other three stools were as empty as a politician’s promise, but she picked the one next to me for reasons known only to herself and the Almighty.

“What’cha drinking?” she inquired, in that manner folks have when they fully intend to order the same thing no matter what you say.

I told her.

“Think I’ll have one too,” she decided, which saved her the burden of making a second decision the same day.

The bartender set to work, and silence settled in like an old dog at a warm hearth.

Now, I can’t say why I said what I said—perhaps it was the whiskey talking, or maybe it was just me listening to bad advice from my brain—but out it came, plain as day:

“So, wanna have the night of your life?”

She smiled the kind of smile that suggests amusement and replied, “No.”

I took a measured sip of my drink, nodded sagely, and returned, “Oh, good. That makes two of us.”

And just like that, the ice cracked, the dam broke –and for the next couple of hours–we talked like two old souls who had forgotten to meet sooner.