It started when I was driving in my truck. My entitlement to starting this book with such a sentence stems from my dues paid from reading literature where the heroine starts her adventure driving in a car, sometimes in the rain, or sometimes down the old country road. But this is what I know. And I am not a character, let alone a heroine. And I was not driving down the old country road.
It was May, and I was driving in my truck. I was thinking about myself, and how I would ever possibly overcome the depth of my sadness. Chris had told me that he never wanted to see me again, and that he was not, in fact, crazy about me and that everything we ever had was a lie. I hadn’t slept in two weeks and you were walking down the street opposite to me. I was crying after remembering when Chris had said it was over when I wiped my tears and saw you out my window. I stopped crying for a moment and you waved.
It was July and I was at the rodeo. My legs were spattered with mud and I was tipsy from drinking warm watery beer. You were working at the gelato stand and I wanted Maple Bacon Vanilla. I started talking to you and you came around the corner and gave me a hug and my gelato and I gave you my number and a kiss on the cheek. You were were so beautiful, your beard thick and dark and your eyes, Sinatra blue. And I thought to myself, in the morning, I’ll call you. But within the hour, we met up and talked all night long. Well, I talked all night long, and we walked and a homeless man offered us his crack pipe. We fell asleep on your couch listening to Ella and I woke up staring at you.
