Southern Love

It was a cold, foggy evening the day I met him. I was wearing new low-rise hip-huggers and a lacey-pink camisole. My dark-brown hair fell in lose curls around my neck and past my shoulders and placed neatly on top was a pink-bandana headband. He was beautiful. He has black eyes and hair and dark skin. He was wearing a black wife-beater, jeans, and a jean jacket. He had on a cowboy had and tipped it as I drew near. He seemed to have no feelings, like he could not be changed. But I feel hard and fast.1

My momma warned me about guys like Steve. Never loved, never will. Just a cold-hearted folk. But I tried so hard to change him.2

“The name’s Sky.” I announced before he had the chance to give me the once-over. I knew guys, they all liked me. Man-eater. The girls all said. But those guys were different, I didn’t love them. Steve, well he was a different story.3

“Steve,” he said in real cowboy talk, “what you doing, dressin’ like that? You’re going to get sick.” And with that Steve took off his jean jacket and dropped it on my shoulders. My heart fluttered, finally knowing love. I asked Steve to dinner, and we were off.4

Steve and I really hit it off, but I should of listened to my mamma’s advice. He could never love and never would. He was just a cold-hearted folk. And I was soon to be part of his past.5

3 weeks later I was in the barn, saddling up my best mare, Lighting. Steve was already on his horse, Crystal, and we were about to go for a brisk afternoon ride. Soon we were riding through the woods, racing to the stream, we tied the horses to the fence and lay in the grass.6

“How do you feel about me?” I asked shyly.7

“Ya’ll are my best friend.” He replied.8

“I love you.” I muttered. And he leaned over, and strangled me to death.9