A century old tradition followed every weekend by young men and women. Gone are the poodle skirts and fedoras. Missing are the Alan Ladd and Bogey cool. Temptress seductress like Bacall and Bergman driven to obscurity of silhouetted pieces of discarded 20mm film.
It's Saturday night and all across the land far and wide young men are washing and waxing their rides. Jeans are getting pressed and shirts are getting starched.
Beard stubble is trimmed neat and close.
Rolling down the boulevard. Windows down with music blaring. 20 something's and 4 to a car. It's Saturday night. Looking tough and riding high. In search of a good time. Beer buckets and bar back shots. The hunt is afoot. They are the hunters. The ladies are their prey.
Women young and full of life. War paint on. The one of a kind outfit picked out and clings just so. Hair up and hair down, awash in spray.
Windows up and music on high.
They are the hunters and young men are their prey. Looking for that Mr. / Mrs degree.
Honky-tonks and corner bars. Hip Hop clubs or disco techs. This is the ground where they hunt. But dark bedrooms and soft beds this is where they will fight.
It's late the music is hot and the dance floor is full. The hunters mark their prey. Circling for the kill they move in.
Bodies close. Hands touch and loins ache. Lips meet. Passion cries out. The hunt is over. Their prey consumed.
Sunday morning as the sun clears the horizon. The beer back promises start to fade. It's been a hard fought battle, neither giving up or going down without a clear cut victor being declared. Sleep comes in the form of sweaty sheets and tangled hair. Cigarette and whiskey smell mingles together with cologne and perfume.
It's Saturday night.
Later, when the booze has faded and the odor of stale cigarettes interwoven between cologne and perfume remains and their sweat covers their bodies like a blanket. Their desires sated. Deep slumber they will share.
For those hours they have it all. Love and gray haired aspirations. Of kids and picket fences. A couple is formed and a bond is forged. A spell has been cast. Their futures bright while they sleep. Right now they have it all.
Legs and arms akimbo. Intertwining dreams they hold each other close. Because at this moment this is how it's supposed to be.
The hours pass. The future that burned so hot and bright last night started to dim. Their slumber begins to fade taking their burning future with it.
They awake and mark their time. A silent acknowledgment of their past and failing future passes from eye to eye.
Each of them losing just a little bit to the other as they wake.
A smile. A kiss. A promise to call. Maybe they will and maybe they won't.
The war is lost. The battlefield cleared its time to move on.
It's Saturday night!