The Falling Hero
His sister’s second wedding, Avalon Hotel.
Tall, rugged, fake bake, bright smile, tight jeans, cool shades.
She couldn't catch his eye back in college days.
Harley tattoo, slight limp, hand-carved cane, no ring, still
sizzlin’ hot.
Half-dozen ladies circle, smile, laugh—he doesn't remember her.
Above-average looks, big hair, Botox, smells good.
A bit older, professional, leased Benz, McMansion.
They dance, a ballet, both know the steps. He
stumbles, she catches him.
Champagne flows, the family goes, they head for the bar.
In her room, rocks her world, doesn’t care about stretch
marks.
Cigarette break: his story.
Broken knee ended pro ball dreams, quit school.
Navy, Desert Storm, then black ops contractor.
Up close and personal--no gun, just a real sharp knife.
SEAL Team 8 … Hoorah!
Drunken fingers trace his slim hips and beautiful backside.
Shows her his scars, shrapnel wounds, she kisses each one.
Nearly got my ass blown off. But that’s not why he limps.
Got MS. Retired me.
No medal for that.
Shared secret: Both off the wagon and full of pain.
Call work. Be
back next week … personal time.
Three days of bliss, fly to Las Vegas.
She finally gets that guy. He hits the jackpot.
Office sends a floral wreath with a banner: “Best of
Luck.”
She'll need it.
