This isn't weird.

Quick, Quick, Slow, Slow

Millie had only been inside the Skinny Thicket Saloon once. She had been fifteen, and she and Crystal Beasley had snuck in through a bathroom window. They laid low in a corner booth, and a middle aged man with a handlebar mustache had already bought them four rounds of tequila shots by the time the bartenders got wise. They had called both their parents, and the last thing Millie remembered of that night was throwing up in her dad's truck. She woke up the next morning with a pounding headache and a split lip, and they never spoke of it again.

It had seemed so grown-up, almost glamorous, through teenage eyes, but now the place just seemed run down and a little depressing. Most of the tables were empty; there were a dozen people in the building, tops. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, and the walls were lined with neon beer logos that intermittently flickered as if barely clinging to life. There was a real, honest to goodness jukebox, and above it hung a faded yellow flag on which a coiled snake objected to being tread upon. There were three pool tables near the back, already spoken for by a gaggle of aging men whose belt buckles put Walt's to shame.

They sat together at the bar, craning their necks in search of a bartender who was nowhere to be found.

"I think I'm literally the only person in this bar not wearing a cowboy hat," Millie said.

"Well, shoot. We can't have that." Walt grinned crookedly, took off his hat, and plopped it onto Millie's head. It went straight down over her eyes, and he had to tilt the brim all the way back so that she could see. "There ya go. Now I'm the odd man out."

"You always were," Millie replied.

"Yeah, I reckon so." He leaned his elbows down on the bar and his smile faded, just a little. "Especially after you left."

"Walter, I—" Millie started, but before she could get the words out, the bartender, a portly older woman with frizzy, box-red hair, finally appeared. 

"You kids look ready for a drink," she said as she sauntered up.

"Oh, we surely are, ma'am," Walt replied. "Couple of Lone Stars sound alright to you, Cammy?"

"Only if they're chasing whiskey," Millie replied.

"McKiller, you are a bad influence."

"I always was."

"Yeah, I reckon so." He grinned at the bartender and handed her his credit card. "I think I'm gonna need to start a tab."

The bartender slid them a pair of red and white cans and poured two shots. 

"Thank you, Miss Martha," Walter said, picking up both shot glasses and passing one to Millie.

"Mazel tov," Millie said as they clinked their drinks together. They downed the shots, and she sputtered a bit before taking a swig of her beer.

"Man, it feels weird drinking with you legally, Cammy," he chuckled. 

"I go by Millie now, actually," she said.

"Millie, huh?" He considered it a moment, then broke into another grin. "Miss Millie May McKillip. Now, if that ain't the cutest name I ever heard."

"Aaand you ruined it."

"Don't you sass me, Millie May." 

"I'll sass whoever the fuck I want."

"That's my girl," Walt laughed. "Damn, it's good to see you again, McKiller. Now, tell me where you been all this time. Last postcard you sent me was from Oregon. When I didn't hear from you again, I thought you up and died of dysentery."

"You fuckin' wish," Millie said. "But Oregon is exactly where I've been all this time. Corvallis, if we're gettin' specific." 

"How'd you end up there?"

"Fuck if I know. I was just a leaf on the fuckin' wind, just like I always said I was gonna be, and that's where it carried me." She picked up her beer and took a long sip. "Met a guy there. Thought he was worth stickin' around for."

"Was he?"

"Oh, hell no. But by the time I figured that out, it was already home, more or less. I didn't have the energy anymore to go lookin' for a new one."

"And now you're here." He gave her a hesitant glance. "I suppose that's on account of all that business with your sister, huh?"

"You know about that?" 

"I got a cousin workin' the ER up in Huntsville. Said they had her airlifted all the way out to Houston." Walt looked apologetic. "I shoulda come by to check up on her. I used to, now and again. But you know how it is with that husband of hers."

"Yeah, I sure do." Millie swigged back the last dregs of her beer, and before she had even put the can down Walt was waving down the bartender for another.

"How long are you here for?" he asked.

"I don't know. Another month or two maybe."

His grin returned, wider than ever. "Millie May, you're gonna be seein' an awful lot of me for the next couple months, whether you like it or not."

"I like it." She smiled, and reached for his hand. "Of course I like it." 

Suddenly, she was all wrapped up in his massive arms once again. "I can't believe you're really here," Walt said. "I can't believe you're here, and I just happened to run into you, and you're gonna be here for months—damn it, Millie May, I'm so happy I could just dance." He gasped and looked down at her. "Dance with me."

Millie laughed. "Walt, I can't fuckin' dance—"

"Bullshit, woman! You're the one who taught me to two-step, remember? When I was so scared of makin' damn a fool of myself at the 4H dance."

"Good god, you're actually serious," Millie groaned. She picked up her fresh beer and downed as much of it as she could in one long gulp. "Alright, Darby. Make a damn fool of me."

"That's my girl!" He got up, pulling her along by the arm toward the jukebox. "You still like George Strait? Stupid question. I don't care how much time you spent up there with them damn yankees, I know you still love George Strait." He was already stuffing quarters into the machine.

"Nothing too fast, alright? And take your damn hat back, I can't see a thing."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, plucking it off of her head and replacing it back onto his own. A schmaltzy beat began playing from the jukebox, followed soon by the sound of fiddles and guitars. Walt grabbed her right hand in his left and tucked his other hand under her shoulder.

"Oh my god, I have no idea what I'm doing," Millie said, stumbling immediately as he moved her forward.

"Yes, you do," he insisted. "Just relax and follow me. I promise not to step on your feet. Quick, quick, slow, slow... there you go!"

Millie was surprised to find her rhythm, but it came quickly, and her self-consciousness soon faded as he ushered her around the floor.

"Alright, be ready, I'm gonna turn you," he said with a smile, and she began to giggle as he spun her around. Tipsy and giddy, she allowed him to whirl her around the room for four songs, each one a little faster than the last, until she was completely out of breath. When they finally came to a stop, she threw her arms around his neck and laughed into his chest.

"Walter Darby, you sure are better at dancing now than you were in ninth grade," she said.

"That's a low bar, but I'll take the compliment," he replied, kissing the top of her head. "Come on, McKiller, let's go get some air." He led her out to the parking lot, where they sat in the bed of his truck, laughing and trading stories as if she'd never even left.