Three pixilated girls flooded into the tavern in 60’s dresses and skittish excitement, licking cone ice cream in showy scoops, and letting their tongues hang out and linger a trice too long. They were lip-pouting and lash-batting at the crooner, one another and I, because I got to looking at their hats which didn’t fit quite right; they read my signals wrong.
The titillated tenor skipped away from his bandsmen, and triangulated to the tantalising trio. He picked out his interest – the slim one in the short, straight, cerise frock, swaying high above her long, boyish legs. She irrigates him with irradiating smiles, play-acting on his absorption, touching her heart in mock awe, beaming brighter.
Suddenly, they have to go. Lady-in-Red flicks a little, frisky wave at her smitten fascinator, and glides lightly out of the saloon. The crooner sings through Guantanamera, drops the mic and exits in leaps and bounds. One hour later, as we end our courtesy date and slide out, we bump into Crooner and Red Dress coquetting at the bar. Taking a keener ken, the misfit hats are off-key wigs! :-)