Steam rose like pistol smoke from my double shot while I gazed at the Silver State horizon, musing to myself that this was the type of place where Clint Eastwood had had it out with many an unshaven buckaroo, adorned with his quintessential poncho, woven with the colors of coffee & cream.
I noticed that the people in this cafe — and in this town — dropped in and shuffled out like so much tumbleweed. In my mind, I heard the twirl of a spur, a twang of a guitar, the clack and spin of a Colt Single Action Army cylinder.
I imagined Clint, his face scrunched like a roasted coffee bean, ready to draw while placing his to-go latte in a cup holder on his saddle.
I imagined that from his dust when he departed there emerged more tumbleweed. And then a backdrop of mesas — speckling the badlands like abandoned big-gulp cups.
