Samantha Moyer stood in the aisle at Best Buy, staring at row upon row of music CDs. If one more person under the age of twenty—making her own forty-three years all the more obvious—jostled her messenger bag without any form of apology, that someone was likely to be decked. She would swear she was menopausal and not responsible for her actions. Who amongst a store full of people half her age would argue with that?

Granted, she didn’t fit the demographics that Best Buy catered to, but Sam was used to breaking stereotypes. She was one of those redheads who didn’t hesitate to wear red as a means of thumbing her nose at the fashion gurus. Sam was just shy of six feet tall and resembled a stocky Lucille Ball. Not that many others in the store would recognize Lucille Ball by hair color, thanks to their only exposure to the comedienne through black and white reruns on cable television.

Sam’s hair was naturally a reddish blond, but she had decided long ago not to do anything halfway. She kept her hair colored what she liked to think of as lusty red—L’Oreal called it Red Penny—and styled in a short, razored cut bearing no resemblance to the benign semi-ponytail of Lucy’s prime.

Why was it that Sam found herself explaining to people that Lucy was Sam’s age when filming the classic episodes of I Love Lucy? Sam would just as soon not delve into that or why she was so obsessed lately with Lucille Ball—maybe because middle age bore too much resemblance to slapstick comedy, particularly when single. "Everyone needs an Ethel," Sam said. She had a crush on Vivian Vance before she fully understood why.

Sam forced her attention back to the rows of plastic cases, having at least decided on genre—country. She didn’t consider it a sign of her age that she dismissed the loud lament of teenagers and preferred blue-collar country music with lyrics she understood. She spent way too much time in the white-collar world as it was, standing toe to toe with pasty, middle-aged men who never expected someone like her in the job of managing the county’s business development program.

"Can I help you, ma’am?" The voice came from the direction of Sam’s elbow. Sam quickly convinced herself that there had been no sarcasm in the question.

"I’m still looking, but thank you for asking." Sam smiled at the young man wearing his hair in a slicked-back ponytail. She caught a glimpse of a tattoo peeking out from his collar.

"Classic rock is over there." He pointed to the far aisle of racks.

"And country is here," Sam said. She resorted to the look to send him on his way, sure that she heard a snicker as he departed. "I’ve turned into my mother," Sam said under her breath. "I suppose talking to myself in Best Buy is not necessarily a good thing. At least he didn’t try to direct me to easy listening." Sam adjusted her crisp white T-shirt, sans any printed design, tucked into creased washed-out jeans.

It was Sam’s own fault for thinking she could come to the store for a quick purchase of music for exercising. It was a busy weekend, and of course, she was trapped in an endless debate with herself—country or rock, male or female singer, recent or classic. It was her nature that if she wasn’t in a relationship, she was obsessed with exercising. Traditional exercise required music or television accompaniment. She religiously climbed onto the stair stepper several nights a week. Exercise seemed to have little impact on lessening her dress size—fourteen on a good day, sixteen on a bad—but at least she was maintaining her weight through activity and eating sensibly as she entered pre-menopause. She was solid muscle and taut skin so far. Sam sighed. She was fit and healthy. Why did she endlessly play all of this out in her mind? Dress size was a number. She still bought size thirty-six men’s jeans, just relaxed fit instead of classic cut as she had twenty years ago—at least she wasn’t into comfort waists yet.

She smiled, finally knowing what to buy, and reached for the CD. "Mmm mmm mmm. I’d pay $9.99 just for the cover photo." She adored Terri Clark and agreed with the reviewers who praised the woman for being a female Alan Jackson mixed with Dwight Yoakam. Sam preferred greatest hits collections—that way, she knew all the songs and sang along the first time she played the music to take her mind off of whatever it was she didn’t want to be thinking about while driving or working out.

Sam threaded her way to the checkout aisle. How in the hell did kids have so much money to spend on music, videos, and games? Sam made a good living and couldn’t keep up with purchases for the systems she owned. She looked longingly at a new Wii game and chided herself that there were better things to do with fifty dollars, just not necessarily more fun things.

Sam opened her wallet as she stared at the credit card reader mounted on the counter. Great, she didn’t have her reading glasses with her. She was still in denial of needing assistance to see.

"This way." The young black woman at the register reached across and rotated Sam’s credit card. "We just installed these. No one’s used to them yet." She smiled at Sam.

"Thank you." Sam handed over the CD and strained to read the young woman’s employee badge. "Desiree." Lucy’s middle name, Sam noted, taking the coincidence as a good sign and her knowledge of it as borderline obsession.

Desiree continued to smile as she scanned the CD. She hesitated as she looked at the front jacket. "I want to look like her when I grow up." She dropped her voice seductively. Desiree was young enough to have barely understood the adult lyrics of the songs when originally recorded.

They both stared at the cover photograph. What was not to like? Terri Clark wore a Stetson as black as her shoulder-length hair that popped the blue in her eyes. The snug tank top was also black, tucked into tight, dark blue jeans. The boots were black with elaborate stitching. The pose on the arm of the leather sofa was classic—one leg propped up with arm resting on raised knee.

"I’d rather date someone who looks like that," Sam said, not realizing she said it aloud.

Desiree didn’t miss a beat in completing the transaction while holding her hand up for a high five as she grinned at Sam. Sam gave the girl’s hand a solid smack and returned the smile.

"Enjoy the music." Desiree handed Sam the bright yellow bag and winked.

Sam walked out of the store in a completely different frame of mind. She looked down as she unclasped her car keys from the strap inside the messenger bag. Desiree had made Sam feel better in five minutes than Sam had in the months of trying to stay busy since her last serious breakup.

Sam glanced up after she started across the driving lanes of the parking lot just as a full-size Toyota truck screeched to a stop. Her feet froze in stride. Sam spotted the rainbow sticker on the back glass and shrugged with a grin of apology.

A butch who was Sam’s age leaned her head out the window. "Bitch, get out of the frickin’ road!"

Sam flipped the woman off and crossed the lane. The truck roared off with a squeal of tires.

"So much for flirting with someone my own age." The July heat shimmering from the asphalt was the only thing hot in Sam’s life at the moment. Her mood wilted as she slid into her black Nissan Maxima. She cringed against the warmth of the leather seats.

"Why is it that I’m able to connect with someone half my age so easily? I probably reminded her of a friend’s mom or favorite old teacher." Sam started the car and turned the fan up on the air conditioning. She looked in both directions while backing out of the space, never quite trusting her mirrors. "Is this what I’m resorting to now—getting off on a few kind words from a mere girl?" She had given up on her latest bout of casual dating several weeks earlier, deciding to concentrate on work and friends. She tore the plastic off the CD as she waited for the traffic light that would allow her onto the highway. "Well, whatever works." Sam laughed at herself—it beat the hell out of crying. "I’ll just have to buy more CDs."

Sam sang Better Things To Do at the top of her lungs and stayed in tune with Terri Clark, matching the vocal twangs. Not an entirely bad place to be.