Cowboys Don't Kiss

I was in the Automotive section of K-Mart, scanning the stack of air filters for the right part number, when I noticed him. He was about thirty-five, dressed in a cowboy hat and boots, with an expensive western shirt and blue jeans. His body was slender but strongly muscled. His eyes were shadowed by his hat brim, but I could see he had a bushy moustache. He'd been staring at me for a couple of minutes.

He looked awfully familiar, but I couldn't place him. Then he removed his cowboy hat and I saw his brilliant green eyes and unruly curly black hair.

"Jeff! Jeff Cramer!" I exclaimed as I walked over to him.

"Ken James, it's really you," he replied. "I sure didn't expect to see you here after all these years."

That's true. I hadn't been expecting to meet anybody I used to know. Cheyenne Wyoming was my home town but I'd moved to Texas thirteen years ago and had been in college in Laramie before that. Cheyenne might be the state capitol and home of the world's oldest rodeo, but that hadn't stopped me and all my buddies from leaving for good.

"I'm still in Austin," I said. "I've got my own computer business. I came back to visit my parents for Thanksgiving. Didn't I hear that you were in Texas for a while?"

"Yeah, I went to vet school at A