Wild Wild West The way she dangles her Pall Mall from her poppy red lips knowing the cowboys at the coral will whip out lighters from back pockets faster than a firearm, then takes a long drag as their eyes slide from her platinum wedge haircut, Siamese blue eyes, to her button-down blouse and designer jeans showing more curves than a country road, nobody can tell her daddy - a big shot lawyer in LA - has just dropped dead of a heart attack and her mother has dragged her out of UCLA summer school and driven her and her brother to a Wyoming dude ranch in the early sixties where Julia, her mother and I serve salad, steak and Stout to cowboys and dudes. The way she wrestles with the wrangler on the bed of his Chevy pickup stinking of collie and Coors no one ever suspects she is engaged to an LA student with the scent of Brut and marijuana. I don’t tell anybody. So I probably am the only one who isn’t surprised when she goes back to LA at the end of the summer and her cowboy gets hitched to another waitress named Julia the next summer on top of the Tetons. I’m the Wife, She Says Her voice is as smoky as the saloon where she sits on a stool downing a Bacardi Daiquiri sucking on a lime and licking salt off the rim while I sip a Singapore Sling, my voice as sweet and syrupy as a sunset sinking behind the Superstitions. She is trim as Tammy with a short shag while I wear Dolly’s blonde wig and breasts, which is why he slow dances with me to George Jones on the jukebox and she shares her sob story with the bald bartender until the kids run in and grab him by the pantleg and her by the hand, and they squabble over who is taking the night shift before driving off in the SUV leaving me to hitch a ride in a pickup truck with a cowboy who smells like a skunk.