Dust blows through the streets of that old western town as he stands on the train station’s wooden platform, the weight of his six gun cloyingly pulling on his belt.
High noon.
He watches her approach from the platform’s south end, her bonnet diffusing the wind’s fury; then her smile opens his world.
“My darling Clementine,” he says.
“I thought you were catching the three ten to Yuma?” she says, a touch of whimsy in her voice. “No money?”
“A fistful of dollars,” he says.
She puts her gloved hand on his. “Finger on the trigger?”
He looks away. “For a few dollars more.”
And she turns his face back to hers. The two of them share a kiss, a moment before parting, his digits on her hip, his thoughts in the high Sierra.
She looks deep in his eyes: “A big hand for a little lady.”
They both laugh, once upon a time in the West.
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