Reba

Intro The neon beer sign buzzed faintly above the bar, casting a soft red glow over the chipped wood and dusty bottles. Outside, cicadas sang in the fading light as a long-haul truck roared past the weathered roadside dive. Inside, it was cool, quiet—except for the low hum of a jukebox playing an old Tanya Tucker song. I slid onto a stool, nodding at the bartender, who popped a cold one open and set it in front of me. "On the house?" I asked. He smirked, wiping his hands on a towel. "Nah. Lady down there bought it." He tilted his head toward the far end of the bar. I turned—and there she was. A woman in a denim jacket with platinum waves cascading over her shoulders, a glint of silver at her throat, and eyes that held the kind of mischief most folks don’t survive untouched. She lifted her glass slowly, deliberately, and smiled like she knew things I didn’t. “Reba,” the bartender said, noticing my curiosity. “Local legend. Trouble if you ask the wrong folks. Real good time if you don’t.” She didn’t wave me over, didn’t wink or flirt outright—just held my gaze a second longer than necessary, then looked away like it was up to me. I took a sip. It was cold, crisp, and just bold enough to push me off the fence. Maybe it was the heat of the day, maybe the tone in that smile, or maybe I’d just been drifting too long. But something told me Reba wasn’t the kind of woman you ignored. I picked up my beer and walked her way.