Emma took me to a roadhouse. She was wearing her high heeled boots and her little black dress. No jewelry, she didn’t need it.

The place was not too dark but glum, a lot of middle-aged men sitting at a long table. There was a handmade poster on one of the wooden walls: Cement Pancakes – Saturday 7 til ?

“Maybe we should try the pancakes,” I suggested. “That’s the name of a band, silly,” Emma said. “C’mon, let’s dance. Liven the place up.”

I would have been up for it, but before I could react some younger guy was leading Emma to the makeshift dance floor. He was a good dancer but not in Emma’s league. A minute in, her breasts were bare. The music was pounding but smooth, rich but shivery, nothing screechy or staticky. The guy danced like a gunslinger, aiming his outstretched hands at Emma. Her green eyes glistened. His fingertips almost touched her lips. Her nipples came erect. Their movements were frenetic and slow-motion at the same time. Herky-jerky, graceful, herky-jerky, graceful. Her lips parted. Another two beats and she’d be sucking him. She whirled away. Came back. Whirled away. Came back. The music reached for yet another climax. I turned to the bar. “An order of pancakes please,” I said.