The alternate scene

George looked up from shoeing the horse to see the outline of Curley's wife in the doorway of the barn. They were alone. She took another step forward, her bust leading her more than usual.

"Ya seen Curly?" she asked innocently.

"He ain't in 'ere," he stated. "Go check yer house, I thought I saw 'em headed that way."

"But I was just there and it was as quite as a mouse," she said, pouting her lips and batting her eyelashes at him.

"Now quit flauntin' yerself  'round 'ere," George exclaimed.

Curley's wife ran her fingers over the gate, that held the other horses, seductively.

"Oh you didn't pull the wool o'er my eyes George," she said, while biting her lip. "I saw the way ya were likin' yer chops when I was in the bunkhouse."

George stopped shoeing the horse and looked up at her hesitantly.

"Wha...Wha... What do ya mean?" George asked as he started sweating bullets.

"I mean sometimes you gotta let yer hair down."

"I am perfectly fine with ma hair how it is!"

Curley's wife started to stroke the horse gate even more seductively, trying to make George give in to her body. The gate latch clicked and swung open, just missing her by a hair. She stood there staring as she started to scream like a banshee.

"What the hell do ya think yer doing, ya tart?" George screamed as he rushed to close the gate.

He was too late. Horses galloped in every direction like bats out of hell. George scrambled after all the horses, while Curley's wife sat on the milking stool, admiring her nails.

"A lil' help would be nice?" George scolded.

"Well, no use cryin' over spilled milk, now is ere' George?" she replied nonchalantly.

George pounded his way to where she was seated.

"Look ere', lil lady," he said,ripping the stool from underneath her. "If yer gonna mess with the bull, yer gonna get the horns!"

Shocked that George was so stern with her, she looked him straight in the eyes and said, "You sir, have bitten of more than you can chew."

Swiftly she turned on her heel and plodded her way on the trail towards her house. Leaving George, running around like a chicken with his head cut off, trying to find a good excuse for what Curley's wife had done.

“Finding a ‘scuse fer ‘er is like tryin’ to find a needle in a hay stack,” George mumbled to himself irritated with Curley’s tart of a wife.