He felt more charming than the Prince and slicker than Fonzie’s hair. He couldn’t put his Roxy fedora on fast enough before he hit the Jerry’s and Shasta. That was the blue-eyed girl’s name, “Shasta.” It was smooth and so was she. She went down sweet like a Mio Sweet Tea. She was concentrated and so was her screwdriver. He’d jackknife just to reach where she was. He was nervous, but he didn’t show it. He brushed it off. There’s no way he’d jump the shark tonight. They chatted; they danced. She twirled; he shuffled. She got close. He pulled her further. He brushed his lips against her own. Not quite a kiss, but with the screwdrivers twistin’ it certainly felt like one. The lights flashed and flickered, the drinks kept coming, hours blurred by in a mere span of minutes. Blonde curly locks tumbled before he took a stumble. He blushed, but blew it off. He grabbed her by the waist and made a bee to the bar. Shots were poured, shots were taken, another pair ordered up. A little bass, a little banjo played in the fore—there was a new couple entrenched in their own lore. A past stricken from the page is never truly stricken. They each had their baggage. They both tried to drop it off at the airlines, but that carousal always comes back around. The two danced for years. Their lips finally touched, and fireworks blossomed and crackled across the Vodka fueled fires. The carry-ons slowly fell away, their passports became outdated, but no one cared.