Dallas was one of those one in a million you meet once during a holiday and never again. The Fourth of July, 1966, was that fateful day you met him.

He was only supposed to be the kiss when the clock hit 12, when the fireworks went off, not some fantasy you can’t help but think about whenever someone brought up the last Fourth of July.

Luckily, he doesn’t have to be a fantasy. When you met him, he handed you a cigarette with his number on it, asking if you wanted it. Your head spoke logic, but you palmed it. The lingering taste of liquor from his lips to yours still fresh in your mind. He was one in a million.