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Lunchtime, and Hank Hill drove out of the Touchdown Chevrolet lot. Nosing onto the Highway 287 access road. Gunning his trucks big V8 engine. Heading for lunch with Mrs Hill. Driving past row upon row of new and used vehicles. His dealership. From humble beginnings twenty years back to a successful business. There was a giant Stars and Stripes flag flying over the dealership. Reinforcing American pride. Next to the lone star flag of Texas. Equally large.

A mile or so along the access road was Hills Autoplex. His used car lot. Selling the rides he wasn’t going to sell in the dealership. Ten year old pick-ups, old model Suburbans and all kinds of clunkers. All basking in the mid day sun. Like old dogs looking for their last owner. There was a huge sign declaring “No Credit, No Problem!”. Hank smiled ruefully at that sign. Part of him hated it. You had no credit, you had a problem. But then he remembered the money he made on those clunkers. Way more than sending them off to auction. Or the wreckers yard.

“Hard to be embarrassed when I’m makin’ money” he said to himself.

He noted the vehicle driving on the other side of the road. Heading toward him. A year old Tahoe. One he’d sold. Betty Johnson behind the wheel. Hank was wearing Ray Bans. Without moving his head he shifted his eyes to check out Betty. A well practiced move. He liked what he saw. Big hair, big boobs. A quick glimpse as she flashed past. He was well practiced. Hank had an eye for the ladies. Always had.

“Ol Betty’s sure grown.”

Which was the truth. Hank had known her since high school. Had enjoyed her on the back seat of his Monte Carlo. More than once. She’d been on the cheer squad. Way back. Now in her late forties, Betty had to be weighing somewhere in the mid two hundreds. Like most women in Burnett, Betty had grown bigger and bigger as the years rolled by. From hot and athletic in their teens to hot and fat in their forties and fifties. Those baby boomers sure had ballooned.

“God bless Texas.”

Which brought him onto his own former cheerleader. Debbie. If Betty was hot, then Debbie was smoking. Like prime, Grade A, ten out of ten hot. Her cheerleading record had been big league. Head cheerleader at high school, cheered through college and then on the Dallas Cowboys cheer squad. Which was where he’d met her.

Keeping one eye on the road, he opened his iPhone. Finding his saved photos. Clicking on the ‘Debbie’ folder. He found the pic he was looking for. It had been taken way back in 1996. When Debbie was cheering for the Dallas Cowboys. He’d been on the Cowboys reserve squad. Back in the Glory Days. Taking a few snaps for the big team when Troy Aikman was injured. Debbie was just starting to chunk up. In her third and final year on the squad. Those white cheer pants just starting to be a squeeze. Back then he’d just started to accept there was nothing sexier than a good looking woman getting bigger. He’d seen her, and said:

“Man, I gotta have me some of that.”

Like most things Hank put his mind to, he had got what he wanted. Twenty two years later they were still married. She sure had chunked up. Big time. He stopped at the red light. Where the access road met the 287 clover leaf. A Greyhound bus was making a slow turn into town. It's Diesel engine whining as it battled to haul itself forward. Hank checked the 1996 cheerleading photo again. He flipped across to a photo taken at the previous Friday’s football game. Burnett Bulldogs vs Decatur Eagles. There she was. All 280lbs of his fat hot wife on show.

He flipped back and forth between the two pictures. He paused on the more mature Debbie. She was still the all American, all Texan sexpot of her cheering days. Just with two decades of big meals under her ever loosening belt. The confidence was there in both pics. Growing from playful confidence in her cheer days to settled, self satisfied confidence today.

Hank turned back to the road. The light was at green. He headed on into Burnett. Driving past the gas station, motels, WalMart and fast food joints. A regular West Texas town. Three car lengths ahead was his wife’s Cadillac Escalade. Like him, headed for Guerra’s Cantina. Just off Burnett’s town square. Hank hit the gas and closed in. The Escalades windows were dark and tinted. But he could make out Debbie’s mesh of blonde and brunette streaked hair behind the wheel. He followed her into the Guerra’s lot. Lunchtime and it was busy.

Debbie was checking her look a final time. Opening the door and lowering herself down. She looked good. Smelled good too. That perfume he’d gotten her last time he was down in Dallas. Creed Aventus for Her. She was wearing cowboy boots and tight fitting blue jeans. Hank knew there was a Lycra mix in those jeans. A red sweater that clung snugly around her swollen belly and chest. Safely on the ground she tugged her top down. Flicked her hair over her plump shoulder and smiled. The smile showed off her perfectly white teeth and unnaturally wrinkles face. The wonders of Botox, Hank knew.

“Hey Hank” she said.

“Debra darlin’, shall we dine?”

“You betcha.”

They headed into the restaurant. Hank slowing his natural, long legged stride. Making sure Debbie could easily keep up. Opening the door for her like a Texas gentleman. Following her inside. Letting his eyes rest on her bulbous behind as he followed in. Marvelling at how she squeezed into those jeans. His look lingering. Before he took off his Ray Bans and looked up.

“Hi Debbie! Hi Hank” said Jackie Guerra. The only woman who could rival Debbie in the Burnett hotness stakes, in Hank’s opinion. A former pageant winning beauty queen who’d enjoyed plenty of her husband Marco’s meals over the years. One very hot, deliciously fattened up Latina lady.

Jackie showed them to a table. Hank and Debbie smiled and howdy’d with some of the other diners. The Hills were a big deal in Burnett. They headed for a corner booth. Debbie got herself comfortable. Hank stole a glance at Jackie as she walked away.

“Stop checkin’ out her ass” said Debbie.

“Only doing it because you’re sat down, sweetie pie.”

Debbie rolled her eyes. A server appeared with a tray of chips with spicy salsa and cheesey queso dips. An older woman who’d worked at Guerra’s for years. Maria. She knew the Hills. Generous tippers. Regulars. No need to give them the menu. She smiled.

“You guys know what you want?” Said Maria.

“Sure, I’ll take the steak and chicken fajitas” said Debbie.

“I’ll go with the breakfast tacos. An’ we’ll have some nachos, to share.”

“Drinks?” said Maria.

“Two Silver Bullets.”

“You got it.”

Hank smiled at the “to share” line. The nachos were mostly for Debbie. That woman liked to eat. They small talked. Mostly about their daughters. Wondering why their second daughter Savannah still didn’t have a boyfriend. On an athletic scholarship to Texas A&M she was majoring in softball, soccer and basketball. Her grades were good. But no boyfriend. Her Instagram page showed an active social life. But lots of team mates and other girls. No boys.

In between mouthfuls of chips and queso, Debbie said:

“I’ve been checking out Savannah’s Instagram page. This Lexi Ryder seems a real close friend.”

“U-huh.”

“Check this out Hank. What does #WCW mean?”

“Hell do I know.”

He looked at Debbie’s iPhone. It was on Savannah Hill’s Instagram account. Savannah was a cross between Hank and Debbie. A good looking girl with blonde hair, a square jaw and an athletic build. Ideal for softball, soccer and basketball. In each picture she was stood with a petite blonde girl called Lexi. Not kissing or cuddling. But obviously close. The post had the hashtag WCW.

“That don’t mean nothing. Just close friends.”

"Real close. And no boyfriend. This Lexi's in lots of pics with her. Savannah’s a good lookin' girl. She’s gotta be fighting boys off with a stick.”

“Better than dealing with that Tanner boy we had Dani dating. I mean damn, how many nights did I have to stay up cleaning that gun? I’m stoked we don’t have that kinda trouble with Savannah.”

“Ummmm…”

Unsure Debbie loaded a handful of chips up with queso and ate them. It was an efficient, well practiced move. Hank took the opportunity to change the subject.

“Took a look at one of those Tracker Pro boats that on sale down in Wichita Falls. Ten grand. I figure it could be a good buy…”

The main course arrived. The table filled with an array of sizzling meats, taco’s, dips and nachos. Both dug in. Debbie methodically working through the spread. Taking the nachos as her own. Hank enjoying her company. Watching her devour the lunchtime spread. Sometimes, when he flattered himself, Hank thought he’d played a big part in his wife’s bulbous explosion of matronly bulk. Which, to an extent, he figured he had. He’d certainly never pushed any diets. But truth was, Debbie loved to eat. She was going to grow into a big beautiful woman, whatever.

They worked through the meal. Hank enjoyed another Coors Light. He settled the check and they headed out. Stopping beside Debbie's SUV. He kissed her. Gently running a hand across her belly. It was a move barely noticeable to anyone looking. An intimate move. Debbie didn't like him making a big deal of her size out in public. But behind closed doors, his love of her excess was no secret. Her belly was solid and full of Tex Mex food.

"Later Debs."

"Bye."

He watched her leave. Then headed back to his truck. Hauling himself up and headed back toward the dealership. Checking out his iPhone as he did. Looking up Savannah's Instagram page. He was no fool. He had a good idea how close this close friend Lexi was. But he had no idea what #WCW meant. So he clicked on the Google icon and keyed in:

"What does #WCW mean?"

The response was:

"WCW stands for Woman Crush Wednesday, which is when users share pictures of ladies that they find attractive or admire."

Hank shook his head.

"Well, that answers that" he said.

He reached over to the radio. It was tuned into Texoma Country Classics. His kind of music. None of that country pop crap. Hank Williams Jr was singing A Country Boy Can Survive. Driving slowly head he followed a big rig headed back onto 287. Kept his speed down passing the cop car parked outside Tractor Supply Co. Then gunned the gas onto the access road. By the time he reached the dealership lot, he was smiling. Hank wasn't the kind of guy to brood for long. Having four daughters and that was a useful skill.

He loaded up his own Facebook page. He was too damned old for Instagram. That was kids stuff. He found the picture of Debbie from Friday's football game. Uploaded it and typed in #WCW into the text box. Nothing more. Then posted it onto his timeline.

"That's gonna confuse the hell outta y'all."

He stepped down from the truck. Walked toward the dealership building. Cowboy boots crunching on the asphalt. His phone was already vibrating. Hank knew what it would be. Likes on Facebook and folks texting him, asking what the hell "#WCW " meant. Making it to his desk he checked it out. The first message was from Savannah. A simple:

" x"

“Hell do I know.”

He looked at Debbie’s iPhone.  It was on Savannah Hill’s Instagram account. Savannah was a cross between Hank and Debbie. A good looking girl with blonde hair, a square jaw and an athletic build. Ideal for softball, soccer and basketball. In each picture she was stood with a petite blonde girl called Lexi.  Not kissing or cuddling. But obviously close. The post had the hashtag WCW.

“That don’t mean nothing. Just close friends.”

"Real close. And no boyfriend. This Lexi's in lots of pics with her. Savannah’s a good lookin' girl. She’s gotta be fighting boys off with a stick.”

“Better than dealing with that Tanner boy we had Dani dating. I mean damn, how many nights did I have to stay up cleaning that gun? I’m stoked we don’t have that kinda trouble with Savannah.”

“Ummmm…”

Unsure Debbie loaded a handful of chips up with queso and ate them. It was an efficient, well practiced move. Hank took the opportunity to change the subject.

“Took a look at one of those Tracker Pro boats that on sale down in Wichita Falls. Ten grand. I figure it could be a good buy…”

The main course arrived. The table filled with an array of sizzling meats, taco’s, dips and nachos. Both dug in. Debbie methodically working through the spread. Taking the nachos as her own.  Hank enjoying her company.  Watching her devour the lunchtime spread. Sometimes, when he flattered himself, Hank thought he’d played a big part in his wife’s bulbous explosion of matronly bulk. Which, to an extent, he figured he had. He’d certainly never pushed any diets. But truth was, Debbie loved to eat. She was going to grow into a big beautiful woman, whatever.

They worked through the meal. Hank enjoyed another Coors Light. He settled the check and they headed out. Stopping beside Debbie's SUV. He kissed her. Gently running a hand across her belly. It was a move barely noticeable to anyone looking. An intimate move. Debbie didn't like him making a big deal of her size out in public. But behind closed doors, his love of her excess was no secret. Her belly was solid and full of Tex Mex food.

"Later Debs."

"Bye."

He watched her leave. Then headed back to his truck. Hauling himself up and headed back toward the dealership. Checking out his iPhone as he did. Looking up Savannah's Instagram page. He was no fool. He had a good idea how close this close friend Lexi was. But he had no idea what #WCW meant. So he clicked on the Google icon and keyed in:

"What does #WCW mean?"

The response was:

"WCW stands for Woman Crush Wednesday, which is when users share pictures of ladies that they find attractive or admire."

Hank shook his head.

"Well, that answers that" he said.

He reached over to the radio. It was tuned into Texoma Country Classics. His kind of music. None of that country pop crap. Hank Williams Jr was singing A Country Boy Can Survive.   Driving slowly head he followed a big rig headed back onto 287. Kept his speed down passing the cop car parked outside Tractor Supply Co. Then gunned the gas onto the access road. By the time he reached the dealership lot, he was smiling. Hank wasn't the kind of guy to brood for long. Having four daughters and that was a useful skill.

He loaded up his own Facebook page. He was too damned old for Instagram. That was kids stuff. He found the picture of Debbie from Friday's football game. Uploaded it and typed in #WCW into the text box. Nothing more. Then posted it onto his timeline.

"That's gonna confuse the hell outta y'all."

He stepped down from the truck. Walked toward the dealership building. Cowboy boots crunching on the asphalt. His phone was already vibrating. Hank knew what it would be. Likes on Facebook and folks texting him, asking what the hell "#WCW " meant. Making it to his desk he checked it out. The first message was from Savannah. A simple:

" x"

Description

Lunchtime, and Hank Hill drove out of the Touchdown Chevrolet lot. Nosing onto the Highway 287 access road. Gunning his trucks big V8 engine. Heading for lunch with Mrs Hill. Driving past row upon row of new and used vehicles. His dealership. From humble beginnings twenty years back to a successful business. There was a giant Stars and Stripes flag flying over the dealership. Reinforcing American pride. Next to the lone star flag of Texas. Equally large.

A mile or so along the access road was Hills Autoplex. His used car lot. Selling the rides he wasn’t going to sell in the dealership. Ten year old pick-ups, old model Suburbans and all kinds of clunkers. All basking in the mid day sun. Like old dogs looking for their last owner. There was a huge sign declaring “No Credit, No Problem!”. Hank smiled ruefully at that sign. Part of him hated it. You had no credit, you had a problem. But then he remembered the money he made on those clunkers. Way more than sending them off to auction. Or the wreckers yard.

“Hard to be embarrassed when I’m makin’ money” he said to himself.

He noted the vehicle driving on the other side of the road. Heading toward him. A year old Tahoe. One he’d sold. Betty Johnson behind the wheel. Hank was wearing Ray Bans. Without moving his head he shifted his eyes to check out Betty. A well practiced move. He liked what he saw. Big hair, big boobs. A quick glimpse as she flashed past. He was well practiced. Hank had an eye for the ladies. Always had.

“Ol Betty’s sure grown.”

Which was the truth. Hank had known her since high school. Had enjoyed her on the back seat of his Monte Carlo. More than once. She’d been on the cheer squad. Way back. Now in her late forties, Betty had to be weighing somewhere in the mid two hundreds. Like most women in Burnett, Betty had grown bigger and bigger as the years rolled by. From hot and athletic in their teens to hot and fat in their forties and fifties. Those baby boomers sure had ballooned.

“God bless Texas.”

Which brought him onto his own former cheerleader. Debbie. If Betty was hot, then Debbie was smoking. Like prime, Grade A, ten out of ten hot. Her cheerleading record had been big league. Head cheerleader at high school, cheered through college and then on the Dallas Cowboys cheer squad. Which was where he’d met her.

Keeping one eye on the road, he opened his iPhone. Finding his saved photos. Clicking on the ‘Debbie’ folder. He found the pic he was looking for. It had been taken way back in 1996. When Debbie was cheering for the Dallas Cowboys. He’d been on the Cowboys reserve squad. Back in the Glory Days. Taking a few snaps for the big team when Troy Aikman was injured. Debbie was just starting to chunk up. In her third and final year on the squad. Those white cheer pants just starting to be a squeeze. Back then he’d just started to accept there was nothing sexier than a good looking woman getting bigger. He’d seen her, and said:

“Man, I gotta have me some of that.”

Like most things Hank put his mind to, he had got what he wanted. Twenty two years later they were still married. She sure had chunked up. Big time. He stopped at the red light. Where the access road met the 287 clover leaf. A Greyhound bus was making a slow turn into town. It's Diesel engine whining as it battled to haul itself forward. Hank checked the 1996 cheerleading photo again. He flipped across to a photo taken at the previous Friday’s football game. Burnett Bulldogs vs Decatur Eagles. There she was. All 280lbs of his fat hot wife on show.

He flipped back and forth between the two pictures. He paused on the more mature Debbie. She was still the all American, all Texan sexpot of her cheering days. Just with two decades of big meals under her ever loosening belt. The confidence was there in both pics. Growing from playful confidence in her cheer days to settled, self satisfied confidence today.

Hank turned back to the road. The light was at green. He headed on into Burnett. Driving past the gas station, motels, WalMart and fast food joints. A regular West Texas town. Three car lengths ahead was his wife’s Cadillac Escalade. Like him, headed for Guerra’s Cantina. Just off Burnett’s town square. Hank hit the gas and closed in. The Escalades windows were dark and tinted. But he could make out Debbie’s mesh of blonde and brunette streaked hair behind the wheel. He followed her into the Guerra’s lot. Lunchtime and it was busy.

Debbie was checking her look a final time. Opening the door and lowering herself down. She looked good. Smelled good too. That perfume he’d gotten her last time he was down in Dallas. Creed Aventus for Her. She was wearing cowboy boots and tight fitting blue jeans. Hank knew there was a Lycra mix in those jeans. A red sweater that clung snugly around her swollen belly and chest. Safely on the ground she tugged her top down. Flicked her hair over her plump shoulder and smiled. The smile showed off her perfectly white teeth and unnaturally wrinkles face. The wonders of Botox, Hank knew.

“Hey Hank” she said.

“Debra darlin’, shall we dine?”

“You betcha.”

They headed into the restaurant. Hank slowing his natural, long legged stride. Making sure Debbie could easily keep up. Opening the door for her like a Texas gentleman. Following her inside. Letting his eyes rest on her bulbous behind as he followed in. Marvelling at how she squeezed into those jeans. His look lingering. Before he took off his Ray Bans and looked up.

“Hi Debbie! Hi Hank” said Jackie Guerra. The only woman who could rival Debbie in the Burnett hotness stakes, in Hank’s opinion. A former pageant winning beauty queen who’d enjoyed plenty of her husband Marco’s meals over the years. One very hot, deliciously fattened up Latina lady.

Jackie showed them to a table. Hank and Debbie smiled and howdy’d with some of the other diners. The Hills were a big deal in Burnett. They headed for a corner booth. Debbie got herself comfortable. Hank stole a glance at Jackie as she walked away.

“Stop checkin’ out her ass” said Debbie.

“Only doing it because you’re sat down, sweetie pie.”

Debbie rolled her eyes. A server appeared with a tray of chips with spicy salsa and cheesey queso dips. An older woman who’d worked at Guerra’s for years. Maria. She knew the Hills. Generous tippers. Regulars. No need to give them the menu. She smiled.

“You guys know what you want?” Said Maria.

“Sure, I’ll take the steak and chicken fajitas” said Debbie.

“I’ll go with the breakfast tacos. An’ we’ll have some nachos, to share.”

“Drinks?” said Maria.

“Two Silver Bullets.”

“You got it.”

Hank smiled at the “to share” line. The nachos were mostly for Debbie. That woman liked to eat. They small talked. Mostly about their daughters. Wondering why their second daughter Savannah still didn’t have a boyfriend. On an athletic scholarship to Texas A&M she was majoring in softball, soccer and basketball. Her grades were good. But no boyfriend. Her Instagram page showed an active social life. But lots of team mates and other girls. No boys.

In between mouthfuls of chips and queso, Debbie said:

“I’ve been checking out Savannah’s Instagram page. This Lexi Ryder seems a real close friend.”

“U-huh.”

“Check this out Hank. What does #WCW mean?”

“Hell do I know.”

He looked at Debbie’s iPhone. It was on Savannah Hill’s Instagram account. Savannah was a cross between Hank and Debbie. A good looking girl with blonde hair, a square jaw and an athletic build. Ideal for softball, soccer and basketball. In each picture she was stood with a petite blonde girl called Lexi. Not kissing or cuddling. But obviously close. The post had the hashtag WCW.

“That don’t mean nothing. Just close friends.”

"Real close. And no boyfriend. This Lexi's in lots of pics with her. Savannah’s a good lookin' girl. She’s gotta be fighting boys off with a stick.”

“Better than dealing with that Tanner boy we had Dani dating. I mean damn, how many nights did I have to stay up cleaning that gun? I’m stoked we don’t have that kinda trouble with Savannah.”

“Ummmm…”

Unsure Debbie loaded a handful of chips up with queso and ate them. It was an efficient, well practiced move. Hank took the opportunity to change the subject.

“Took a look at one of those Tracker Pro boats that on sale down in Wichita Falls. Ten grand. I figure it could be a good buy…”

The main course arrived. The table filled with an array of sizzling meats, taco’s, dips and nachos. Both dug in. Debbie methodically working through the spread. Taking the nachos as her own. Hank enjoying her company. Watching her devour the lunchtime spread. Sometimes, when he flattered himself, Hank thought he’d played a big part in his wife’s bulbous explosion of matronly bulk. Which, to an extent, he figured he had. He’d certainly never pushed any diets. But truth was, Debbie loved to eat. She was going to grow into a big beautiful woman, whatever.

They worked through the meal. Hank enjoyed another Coors Light. He settled the check and they headed out. Stopping beside Debbie's SUV. He kissed her. Gently running a hand across her belly. It was a move barely noticeable to anyone looking. An intimate move. Debbie didn't like him making a big deal of her size out in public. But behind closed doors, his love of her excess was no secret. Her belly was solid and full of Tex Mex food.

"Later Debs."

"Bye."

He watched her leave. Then headed back to his truck. Hauling himself up and headed back toward the dealership. Checking out his iPhone as he did. Looking up Savannah's Instagram page. He was no fool. He had a good idea how close this close friend Lexi was. But he had no idea what #WCW meant. So he clicked on the Google icon and keyed in:

"What does #WCW mean?"

The response was:

"WCW stands for Woman Crush Wednesday, which is when users share pictures of ladies that they find attractive or admire."

Hank shook his head.

"Well, that answers that" he said.

He reached over to the radio. It was tuned into Texoma Country Classics. His kind of music. None of that country pop crap. Hank Williams Jr was singing A Country Boy Can Survive. Driving slowly head he followed a big rig headed back onto 287. Kept his speed down passing the cop car parked outside Tractor Supply Co. Then gunned the gas onto the access road. By the time he reached the dealership lot, he was smiling. Hank wasn't the kind of guy to brood for long. Having four daughters and that was a useful skill.

He loaded up his own Facebook page. He was too damned old for Instagram. That was kids stuff. He found the picture of Debbie from Friday's football game. Uploaded it and typed in #WCW into the text box. Nothing more. Then posted it onto his timeline.

"That's gonna confuse the hell outta y'all."

He stepped down from the truck. Walked toward the dealership building. Cowboy boots crunching on the asphalt. His phone was already vibrating. Hank knew what it would be. Likes on Facebook and folks texting him, asking what the hell "#WCW " meant. Making it to his desk he checked it out. The first message was from Savannah. A simple:

" x"

“Hell do I know.”

He looked at Debbie’s iPhone.  It was on Savannah Hill’s Instagram account. Savannah was a cross between Hank and Debbie. A good looking girl with blonde hair, a square jaw and an athletic build. Ideal for softball, soccer and basketball. In each picture she was stood with a petite blonde girl called Lexi.  Not kissing or cuddling. But obviously close. The post had the hashtag WCW.

“That don’t mean nothing. Just close friends.”

"Real close. And no boyfriend. This Lexi's in lots of pics with her. Savannah’s a good lookin' girl. She’s gotta be fighting boys off with a stick.”

“Better than dealing with that Tanner boy we had Dani dating. I mean damn, how many nights did I have to stay up cleaning that gun? I’m stoked we don’t have that kinda trouble with Savannah.”

“Ummmm…”

Unsure Debbie loaded a handful of chips up with queso and ate them. It was an efficient, well practiced move. Hank took the opportunity to change the subject.

“Took a look at one of those Tracker Pro boats that on sale down in Wichita Falls. Ten grand. I figure it could be a good buy…”

The main course arrived. The table filled with an array of sizzling meats, taco’s, dips and nachos. Both dug in. Debbie methodically working through the spread. Taking the nachos as her own.  Hank enjoying her company.  Watching her devour the lunchtime spread. Sometimes, when he flattered himself, Hank thought he’d played a big part in his wife’s bulbous explosion of matronly bulk. Which, to an extent, he figured he had. He’d certainly never pushed any diets. But truth was, Debbie loved to eat. She was going to grow into a big beautiful woman, whatever.

They worked through the meal. Hank enjoyed another Coors Light. He settled the check and they headed out. Stopping beside Debbie's SUV. He kissed her. Gently running a hand across her belly. It was a move barely noticeable to anyone looking. An intimate move. Debbie didn't like him making a big deal of her size out in public. But behind closed doors, his love of her excess was no secret. Her belly was solid and full of Tex Mex food.

"Later Debs."

"Bye."

He watched her leave. Then headed back to his truck. Hauling himself up and headed back toward the dealership. Checking out his iPhone as he did. Looking up Savannah's Instagram page. He was no fool. He had a good idea how close this close friend Lexi was. But he had no idea what #WCW meant. So he clicked on the Google icon and keyed in:

"What does #WCW mean?"

The response was:

"WCW stands for Woman Crush Wednesday, which is when users share pictures of ladies that they find attractive or admire."

Hank shook his head.

"Well, that answers that" he said.

He reached over to the radio. It was tuned into Texoma Country Classics. His kind of music. None of that country pop crap. Hank Williams Jr was singing A Country Boy Can Survive.   Driving slowly head he followed a big rig headed back onto 287. Kept his speed down passing the cop car parked outside Tractor Supply Co. Then gunned the gas onto the access road. By the time he reached the dealership lot, he was smiling. Hank wasn't the kind of guy to brood for long. Having four daughters and that was a useful skill.

He loaded up his own Facebook page. He was too damned old for Instagram. That was kids stuff. He found the picture of Debbie from Friday's football game. Uploaded it and typed in #WCW into the text box. Nothing more. Then posted it onto his timeline.

"That's gonna confuse the hell outta y'all."

He stepped down from the truck. Walked toward the dealership building. Cowboy boots crunching on the asphalt. His phone was already vibrating. Hank knew what it would be. Likes on Facebook and folks texting him, asking what the hell "#WCW " meant. Making it to his desk he checked it out. The first message was from Savannah. A simple:

" x"