Texas Tornado by Barry Basden

You know, the kind of gal walks into the Dew Drop about 3 in the
afternoon, slides up to the bar in her tight jeans and peasant
blouse, orders up an icy long-neck Shiner or maybe a Corona with a
slice just to be ornery.

She tilts it back and conversation stops while the ol' boys propping
up the bar watch her swallow a goodly part of it down. Oh, the lovely
muscles of her lovely neck bouncing that cute little teething ring
necklace just above those mesmerizing breasts.

Then she sashays past the empty pool table to the jukebox in the
corner, leans over it in those jeans, studies awhile, and finally
punches up K-13, Robert Earl Keen's "High Plains Jamboree" and by the
time its sad and lonesome two-step first verse ends, she's seated in
a straight back chair at an empty table.

"Howdy, boys," she says with a smile that could melt January sleet in
Amarillo.

And the slightly untidy bartender in her cutoff Levi's and her pale
yellow halter top with no cleavage stares hard at her. She knows
someone from a whole other league has just ruined her day.