Shooting Star

Naughton stretched his denim-covered legs, pulling himself from the barstool and rising to his boot-clad feet. A little dust kicked up as he moved, but no one seemed to mind. The Cowboy Grill was closing for the night—it had been a long one. This misbegotten town lived Friday nights long and lazily, a little blues and a little country dancing, a lot of beer and a lot of liquor sliding down the throats of its crowd, slowly lulling them to sleep. The lucky ones got sex before they slumbered, but these were languid fucks that sometimes didn’t finish with much of a bang. Naughton seemed above these moods that dulled the senses and depressed the heart. His smile was always broad and kind, and his eyes were always the same sharp sky blue clear. Despite the fact that he drank his share of the Grill’s Southern Comfort, he always looked sober and he never acted drunk. Some women came to rely on Naughton’s sobriety and generosity when, by closing time, they were too drunk to make it home alone. Naughton never made any judgments of moral character, but then too, he never slept with drunks.

Same old guy from day to day, he was steady, unremarkable on first glance, and yet he had that kind of quiet verve that set women on edge. They’d remember him long after their first meeting, not really knowing why. Those initial impressions could be dangerous though, a bit of tender subterfuge. It was what he did to women after they were distracted by his easy-going nature that never left their souls once he got “under their skin”.

Brandy Winger had finished her last set, and polished off a fifth of gin as easily. She had her guitar case in hand, trying to bat away a lock of her caramel-colored satin hair. It still shown softly in the dim lights, looking like the mane of a well-brushed pony, moving gracefully around her face even as she tried an ungraceful exit from the bar.

“I’ll take you home, Brandy,” Naughton suggested reaching for her faltering arm.

“That’s okay. I’m walking,” she answered. “I promise you, I can’t kill people with this guitar case.”

His laugh was easygoing, and he took the guitar case from her hand in spite of what she said. And with his firm hand guiding her through the door, they made their way to the pale green pick-up truck where he helped the boozy singer climb inside.

“You down on your luck, or something?” he asked as he drove toward her motel.

“What makes you think that?” she asked.

“Most women don’t drink a whole fifth alone unless they’re sinking nowhe