A Taste Of The Good Old Days

Rick and Glen sit there, beers in hand, watching the cheerleaders bounce across the screen. They’re both married, both drowning in kids and mortgage talk, but right now they’re lost in memories of cheap motel rooms and college girls who didn’t ask for commitment before they dropped their panties. Then Sally walks in, eighteen, tight little body, books hugged to her chest like a shield. She greets them with that careful smile, glances at the game and says she’s meeting Rick’s daughter upstairs. The second she disappears they exchange the kind of look you give your running buddy when the finish line suddenly appears. An idea forms in Rick’s head, dirty and simple. When Sally comes back downstairs he offers her a ride home. She says she can walk, says her parents are expecting her, but he lays the charm on just thick enough. One more bright smile and she caves. Glen climbs into the front passenger seat like he belongs there; Sally climbs into the back, fingers twisted in her skirt. Engine turns, garage door rattles open, and three shadows cut into the street with one shared thought—old dogs, new tricks.