Seven men rise and march obediently toward their destinies. It’s off to work they go. Order is restored. But not for him. The Cowboy.

His clothes are rumpled like a motel bed at dawn. His boots dusty, defiant have not known rest since Friday. A Stetson hat, bent just so, tells a story no one asked to hear. He has been awake all night. All weekend. There was music. There was whiskey. There was dancing that began as a conversation and ended as a promise.

And then her.

The kind of beauty that can permanently alter a man’s judgment. Violet eyes? Or just the bar’s neon sign flickering? It hardly matters now. What matters is that she gave him her telephone number. Or tried to. He thought he had it. He was certain he had it.

But certainty, like ice in a glass of bourbon, melts. He reaches in his pocket. Nothing. No scrap of paper. No matchbook. No pencil. Just the cruel knowledge that somewhere between the third dance and the last drink, destiny slipped through his fingers.

Still he must get to work.

Because, like the seven men, even cowboys, even men who nearly loved for one perfect weekend punch the clock on Monday morning. The cowboy will never be without a pencil again- or seven.