I’d been aware of her from the moment she came in and sat down at the end of the bar. Any man with a pulse — and I daresay quite a few women as well — would have been. It wasn’t just the million-dollar legs, or the attitude big enough to fill a room that was empty this deep into the night. It was that smile. I’d seen her flash it at the bartender when she ordered and I knew then I’d make her any drink she wanted.

I tried not to stare, tried to play it cool and just focus on my own drink and my own business, but of course she caught me. I imagine she was used to it, but still, I didn’t want to be a creep, because I imagine she was used to that as well. So I looked away. But it wasn’t long before I wanted to look again. It was like an itch in an inconvenient place that only gets stronger the more you try to ignore it. So finally I risked a glance… and she flashed that smile again, in my direction this time, and I swear that this is what she said, stranger to stranger in some desolate watering hole in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night:

“Well… ain’t we a pair… Raggedy Man?”

(The preceding never happened, in case you’re tempted to think I’m relating a treasured memory. It’s nothing more than a rock-and-roll fantasy that came to mind on an overcast Friday afternoon as I studied a photo that’s going around and which I happen to really like. She did have one hell of a smile, though, didn’t she?)