(650 words) “‘Clothes horses,’ that’s what she calls ‘em.” “Uh huh.” “That’s all they do, walk up and down the deck, flaunting themselves.” “Uh huh. That a problem, sir?” “Who, me? No … no, it’s just that she … that’s my wife, Josie, doesn’t like me looking at them. Says I shouldn’t ‘gawp at other women’s anatomy’!” The bartender wiped a glass, smiling wryly. “Well, you have to admit, sir, they’re lookers.” “They sure are. Those crazy long legs, long blonde hair, low cleavage showing their ripe mangos! What are they, dancers in the shows or something? I never see ‘em during the day, just the evening, ‘bout seven, I guess. Up and down, up and down they walk, eyes straight ahead. Till about eight.” “D’you ever get to speak to one?” “No, no, I mean, well they look too, er, haughty, I guess you’d say.” “Well, you’re wrong there, sir, it’s not such a big deal. Say hello, pay ‘em a compliment. You’ll get a great big smile. And she’ll be happy to chew the fat with you!” “Really? Well, I guess I’d like to, but there’s Josie you see, she wouldn’t like it. Can’t say as I’d blame her.” The bartender put down the glass he was polishing, took another one from a shelf and poured a large shot of bourbon into each. “Here you are, sir, on the house!” “Why, that’s kind of you!” “You’re welcome, sir.” The bartender took a sip. “Look sir, I’ll let you in on a little secret.” He winked.