Роберт Батлер - The Ironworkers' Hayride

“Shall we find all the constellations?” Minnie says suddenly, lifting her face to the night.

“Yes,” I say. “I know something about that.”

And so we trace them out together, these patterns in the sky, and I count the stars that make them up while she talks about bears and archers and hunters with swords. And we go on to talk about this and that and we all sing some more songs after the others emerge from their blankets, and when the wagons have returned to the gates of the ironworks, I help Minnie down, grabbing her firmly at her waist, and for a moment it feels as if I am ready to waltz her around and around with her feet never touching the ground.

Though I don’t. The Model T is idling nearby and Minnie and I stand before each other, about to part. She says, “Thank you, Milton. This has been grand.”

“Yes,” I say. And at this moment it does not occur to me whatsoever that Minnie would want to see me again. But what do I know? My judgment is trustworthy only to the bottom of a column of figures. For Minnie takes a step nearer to me, and she dips her face just a little without letting her eyes leave mine, and she says, “You come call on me, all right, Milton?”

I am once again without words, but I manage to nod my head so as to say yes yes I will I will. And then she smiles a sweet, slow smile and says, “Just for future reference, Milton. It’s the other leg.”