After.., Part 7: Meanhile, back at the skimpy-portion party, Ellen was again left standing.

Just when the conversation with two other guests was, maybe, making some progress, a third beckoned to the two to an adjoining room - where the other bar was - Ellen, was simply overlooked.  She checked her phone, found a seat, read some messages, and sent a response to one.  She paused for a bit, glanced around, and feeling invisible, began to take the hint.  It was barely past 1am, by the time she unlocked her front door.

Catching her reflection in a full-length mirror, which stood in a corner of her spacious living room, time was gaining its inevitable victory.  Adjoining rooms, where the good stuff was stocked, where the fun and games were really happening, were also happening to be slipping past her - as if she had never existed.  

Ellen slipped into her shower, dried off, entered her bedroom suite, clapped on her flat screen, slipped between her calif-king silk sheets, and watched a movie about ... well, a storyline - for lack of better terms - has no place on, basically, a PG-rated blog.

Later in the week, Ellen was at the office.  An assignment had come down to her; it was the typical PR stuff, but the project did contain some personal benefit.  But there was one slight difficulty - the setting was a bit too close to tent-town.  Ellen sent one of her staff to cover the fund-raiser instead.

Ellen took a sip of her coffee, it was cold.  She texted one word to the clerk out front. "Coffee."   She then continued browsing the potential client's website.  On a following page was some sort of project going on; in the background were several booths.  On the front of one, there was sign saying something about a local hospital's family services department.  Nearby, a familiar figure was receiving a modest trophy, as thanks for his org's donation of some free food to be distributed to the area's needy families.  

Cowboy.  To her surprise, he had some social benefit.  The caption listed him as "President..."  

A bit after 5, she pulled out of her parking lot, and into the lot of a nearby merchant.  "SelfieCentral."  The retail service specialized in various backdrops, props, and related gear.  The outfit she had purchased, and changed into, had barely enough fabric, for the average ranch-hand to blow his nose into.  Ellen had chosen the motorcycle scene.  Among the purchases was the lacy purple face mask.  The thigh-high boots, she had leased, were a size 5, a bit too small for her feet.  But hey, she needed them for what?  Fifteen minutes?  

Needless to say, the salesperson, in doing his or her job, looked in on some noise coming from within the "chopper" enclosure.  Like a pro, he/she sensed opportunity, and turned over the sign just inside the front door - which now informed any incoming customers, "B Back in 10." 

Inside her secured door, she wiggled out of her mini-suit skirt, threw her jacket and silk blouse in the direction of the sofa.  Both missed.  She didn't care as she removed her remaining ... for lack of better terms, garments, which consisted of a bra and a thong.  Running some warm, sudsy water, she then soaked in the tub.  Her phone remained upon a round-table in the living room.  She'd send the pic, maybe tomorrow, but probably the day after.  Her body felt a bit tender, in various places.  

Saturday morning held promise.  While the day was brisk, and a bit windy, the rain wasn't supposed to arrive until around 10 or 11 that evening.   In short, the halloween parade in town would be over.   Cowboy, scanned his messages, while his son watched a favorite cartoon.  It aired on the vintage channel.  The cartoon's name was "Speed Racer."  Cowboy couldn't recall it either, it was one that came out when his dad would sit and watch a few saturday cartoons.

From the dining area, cowboy heard his wife just going about her normal saturday morning routine of generally picking up here and there.  Her phone buzzed, she picked up.  "Morning gramma..." a tv commercial shouted another you-must-have to the juvenile audience.  "...tomorrow morning around 11...yeah, i read part of the chapter, but don't quite follow...didn't Paul...?"

Cowboy continued down his messages.  One from a buddy with a pic of a fish he'd caught, another buddy with a long description about a you-godda-see website.  Cowboy backed out; it was one of those conspiracy blogs.  No thanks.  Another message was nothing but click-bait.  Delete.  The following message was from...well, he wasn't sure, but clicked anyway.  

It was a pic.  Sure cowboy took in an eyeful of the "biker babe"...for about two seconds, shook his head, then BLOCKED!