I decide that this is the last pitcher of Leinenkugels before chimichanga time.
The sudden enchantress enters the tavern, followed by a shaggy fellow.
She dons a pink (or orange, one may not be able to discern in this dim light) sweater. Her brunette hair is pony tailed up and bouncy. The bouncy I find cute as it moves up and from and back to the pink (or orange) sweater.
Our eyes meet briefly as I look to the bartender to order my last pitcher, and she, her first for the night. Her eyes, a deep brown, the eyes of a gorgeous doe, sad and soft.
I join my pals off to the side and we fill our cups.
I don't know the details of her connection with the shaggy man she arrived with, therefore I shy away from "hitting on her."
In the next few minutes as we down the Leinenkugel remains, she periodically looks back at the paintings above me. Our eyes meet again several times. I'm startled, unsure whether she is looking at these paintings as an excuse to "check me out" or as an excuse to gauge whether this creep behind her is "checking her out." Or whether she is honestly interested in the paintings themselves. All I know is, I can't help but make eye contact with her. It is thrilling. It is intoxicating. I can easily see where a man can grow addicted, looking deep into her soft brown eyes. And drifting in for a kiss.
The chicken shit that I am, I leave the bar upon finishing the last of my cup, so that my pal and I can get our fill of chimichanga to soak up the swill.
On the walk out the door I think that I would like to write her a love note, in some sacred ancient language. Perhaps Sanskrit.