I knew ’em all. From the Boot Scootin’ Boogie to the Hillbilly Stomp, I could dance circles around the crowds as my friends kept the time and stomped along with me. I spent thousands of hours in smokey, dark bars breaking my back under the light of the dance floor and killing my feet in too tight black leather boots. The nights whittled away in the twang of the guitar and at the bottom of beer bottles, left only with the remnants of froth.
There is nothing I miss more than those nights. Tuesdays through Saturday I was stomping, swinging, and singing along to my favorite songs in a friendly competition with my best friends. We owned the floor for a few shorts hours every nights.
And like every good gang of friends in bar, we stuck up for each other. If an outsider was making a scene, we’d give her a piece of her mind. The guys were our guardians, wearing mean grimaces under Stetson hats with muscles whispering threats from under rolled up t-shirt sleeves.
Those nights flood my memory each time I flip through a country station or chance on the voice of a familiar band on the television. Each night that I drive towards Dave’s house, the pain aches at my heart knowing that we’re only a few miles from a bar just like the one I spent countless nights at in Columbus before we began dating.
There are some things that ever person has to concede when they start a relationship. Usually those concessions revolve around whether or not his dad’s fifty-year-old velour armchair in paisley is worth more than your pretty leather couch for the living room. Sure, you wind up having to spend time with families and friends (in my case, I have no friends of my own here) and plans change, but my heart would soar if a few times a month, I pulled on those black, worn boots and threw on a palm hat to two-step to the blaring twang of a country tune.
My heart pulls for those memories, and I don’t want to remember my life away.