If I was twenty-three

She jumped back from the bar as two hands grabbed her waist from behind.
"Hey, you!"

She spun around to see him standing there.
Texas, they called him.
To be honest, she was surprised he remembered her, the only time they really ever met being when they watched a movie with.. someone else, and Texas had invited her to rest her legs over his.
She'd seen the way that he'd looked at Texas then.

"Hey, how are you?" she smiled, but without the aid of alcohol, and being in a bar swamped with men, it was hard to feel confident.

He replied to her in his thick accent, and she realised she still didn't know his real name.

He followed her back to the pool table with her friends and quizzed her on how things had been, talked about the game, showed off his text messages from a certain cheerleader he had his eyes on.

She longed to ask Texas if he'd heard from him, if he'd said anything, if he was ignoring her, did he know if he was busy?

But they just continued chatting away, about the game, who was winning, how was everything going, and then suddenly she had something she could grasp at.

"I still don't have that shell you stole from my room that night!" she smiled, a glint in her eye.

He laughed, "It's at his place still!"
"You'll have to get it for me then!"

He laughed again, and bumped his hip into hers, "You're gonna have to," he winked.

She attempted a laugh and carried on their conversation in between pool shots, but didn't really listen.
She didn't want to laugh. She wanted to grab him by the collar and ask where he was. Why he was gone. If he was gone. What was going on.

But she didn't of course. Only in the stories that she wrote in her head did these kind of things happen.

She knew she'd see Texas around again.
And maybe if she saw him again, there was hope that someone else would follow.