slow beat swing music

I got the tape from Eddy. It was a copy of a Frank Sinatra album, “My Way.” I played it in the Chevy when I went to pick Gina up.

Just like on cue, the title song played with just enough time to finish before I arrived. I needed the boost. I had no business with Gina. She was 4 years older and had a list of broken hearts longer than most bus lines.

I pulled up in front of her house, got so close to the curb that I scraped my hubcaps, but I didn’t care. I started up the steps but she started out the door.

“Hi Bobby.” She was smiling red and wide and dear and with a hint of something else.

“Gina! Movie? Burger? I mean, would you like to catch the 7 o’clock show?”

“Let’s.” I reached up, she offered her hand, I walked her down the steps and into the car.


“How’d you know? I’m famished.”

Her red hair was all curves and rested against the seat of my car in a way I would have loved to orchestrate.

We got to the drive-in, I paid the man in the booth, and we parked. I looked at her, the light from the movie making hidden shadows on her face. I couldn’t find my voice.

Finally, “Gina, I think I’m in love with you.”

“Bobby, quit being silly, I’m starved.”

I smiled, opened and closed the door, walked to the concession stand, happy.