As Ivy enters the room, Bo is leaning against the bar. He exhales a plume of life and says, “Ivy, come here.”
She saunters and swivels. A smile, a laugh.
“Why, of course, Bo,” she says.
He takes another meditative drag. “Ivy,” his voice is staccato. He punctuates his sentences with cadenced pauses.
“Ivy, I know an old man like myself does not stand a chance with a young woman like you.” He tilts his head back and takes a drag of his smoke.
He continues, “But, Ivy, if I should die, and come back as a horse, would you train me?”
Ivy leans forward, throws her arms around his neck and kisses him on the cheek.
“I’d be honored, Bo,” she says.
The flirtation continues. A week later, Ivy is at the front bar slinging drinks to an audience of wannabe suitors. Bo glides through the door and it’s as though the bar is suddenly connected to a tobacco stained band of light, a fading ray, here for a moment to teach us about defiance and dignity and grand gestures.
Bo lights a cigarette and waits for Ivy to look his way. When she does he says, “You know, Ivy, if I was just 40 years younger…”
She cuts him off, “You’d be 40, Bo.”
This time he gives her a kiss.