There was ill intention behind each throw of the dart. It stuck in the board with a thud that crossed the room. You’d wait for everyone to settle before throwing another, making sure their eyes were resting on you. Between goes you hovered around our pool table, keeping your own eyes on her. You watched as she laughed and unconfidently measured her shot. This was your chance. Your in. Your riding-boot-clad foot in the door. “Here, let me get this one for you,” you offered, taking the cue as if you’d just relieved her of brown paper bags full of groceries or parallel parked her mini-van in a tight spot out front of the salon. You immediately blasted the cue ball, which hit and sunk the eight, giving my team the win and you the loss of your boot, and an embarrassing walk back to your beer.