Deke's Note: Most of you are accustomed to my writing from behind the wheel of a city bus. I have created many other stories throughout my life. I recently began posting my ramblings on Substack in an effort to flex literary tendons. Lately, only a few subscribers/followers. I don't expect the thousands of daily reads, nor nearly a million of FTDS hits I've enjoyed here over the past 13 years. But maybe, with a bit more work, I'll get there. Here's a humble attempt at Coomer Humor, a true bit of my past, for you transit mugs.
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Lunch and drinks at Big Nose Kate’s Saloon in Tombstone, Arizona.
Buxom, friendly waitress in her 50s. Playing the part perfectly. Dressed in 1880s barroom attire, flirtatious. Leans in a bit close for Beloved’s comfort, asks for my order.
She’s wearing an alluring scent, and I say it’s very nice.
“Oh,” she purrs close to my ear, “you like my perfume, huh?”
Beloved gives me the look from across the table. My face reddens, but I don’t want to be rude. I’m just 35, still a young buck. Of course, I’m not about to flirt with someone older than me whilst my 22-year-old Beloved stares daggers across the table.
“Very nice,” I repeat. I’m in a tight spot here. Our friends chuckle at my full blush.
She leans in closer, that alluring scent even stronger. “My perfume is called Come to Me,” she says.
I nod. She narrows the distance, shooting Beloved a wink and comforting smile.
“Does it smell like come to you?”
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