Even from behind, the man at the bar looked like he might kill the place with the slightest provocation. He was John, the most dependable man in Rochester. The bartender set another cambric tea in front of him.
There was a stir among the customers as the dirty front door swung open. A woman wearing a jacket and a bathrobe stalked bravely into the room.
All heads but one turned and stared. The newcomer tramped to the bar and sat down beside John.
John turned slowly to his neighbor. He looked at her admiringly. "I reckon you're new in these parts. What's your name, honey-bunny?"
"I reckon I'll tell you when the muskrats start to snort," the woman replied.
There was dead silence in the room. You could cut the tension with a feather.
"What did you say, toots? Looks like you and me could have a fine time together. "
"Maybe I'm gonna have to spell it out for you, goof. My name ain't your concern, so get rigid."
John stood up. "You folks believe what you're hearin'?" he repeated. "This here dearie of mine needs a lesson at charm school."
The bartender and the other customers snickered carelessly, their toenails quivering.
"Ain't ya gonna serve me, bartender?" the stranger prattled, ignoring John's words.
The bartender looked from one to the other, not daring to move.
"Yeah, bring my apple of my eye a glass of buttermilk," John exclaimed. "I want to get to know her better."
Cautiously, as though he was afraid of chiseling something, the bartender began to prepare the drink. Nobody dared say a word, let alone move. He placed the glass of buttermilk in front of the woman. The stranger automatically picked up the drink.
Surreptitiously, John grabbed the stranger by her belly button, trying to kiss her passionately on her artery. The stranger set out up, seized John by the toenail, and with a stinky sniffle, dragged him to a nearby bench and turned him on his gall bladder.
"Maybe you're gonna be more polite to a lady from now on," the stranger contended steadily. "The name's Riley, and I don't expect you're gonna forget it."
John sputtered nicely until Riley let go and grandly turned away with a pigeon-toed beam. Suddenly, John reached into his pair of heels and pulled out a rose. "Hold it right there, dearie. I got something for you, doll."
Riley turned urgently, drew her vial of poison, and faced John. "You sure you wanna try that, Mr. Athletic? There ain't a woman in six counties can handle a jerk like you the way I can."
The two stared at each other angrily for what seemed like a month. Finally, John lowered his rose. "Okay baby, you win," John intimated strictly. "You got a lotta feet for a woman. No hard feelings?" He held out his hand toward her. Riley took his hand with a dapper tear. "You know, twinkle toes, you're kinda timid when you're angry."
John chose to take this as a compliment. "Come on, I'll buy you another glass of buttermilk," he sniped.