So yesterday, I kid you not, a guy dressed like Darth Vader walks in, black boots, black helmet, black cape swaying, pulls out a gun, and robs the bank. It was lunch hour. I was there.
I'm standing fourth in line with the weekend deposit from the beauty shoppe in a zippered bag, lucky he didn't take that, and the little kid in front of me tugs at his mother's shirt, saying, "Is that Darth Vader?" His mother says, "Looks like it." "What's he doing here?" the kid asks, and his mom says, "That's the million dollar question, isn't it?"
I doubt it was a million, maybe a couple thousand, probably red from a dye pack by now. They haven't caught him, and I'm kind of glad, you know? Not much happens in Booneville, especially on a Monday.
The guy was tall, maybe six two. I've been looking around, I mean maybe he's somebody I know. I'd date a guy like that, a guy with real imagination.
Not like Scotty, who just sits around watching football, drinking beer, maybe takes me to the Dew Drop Inn for a few beers on a Saturday, maybe Sizzler once a year on my birthday. It gets old, you know. I mean, okay, he's hot—blond hair, tight ass, great abs, just a little belly from the beer. He lifts weights, and he's pretty strong.
But where's the future there? If we get married, it will be the same old, same old, probably without the Dew Drop Inn, maybe with an added trip to Sizzler on our anniversary each year. Or hell, maybe to The Captain's Table. Just once, I'd like to get more than fourteen miles out of Booneville.
Darth Vader could take me places. I just know it.
First published at FlashFiction.Net (Matter Press) in March 2016.