Thank God For Ravioli “Life is a combination of magic and pasta." ~ Federico Fellini In September of 1996, I had been performing three nights a week at a small Italian cafe in Santa Fe, New Mexico, for almost a year. Singing and playing guitar, I’d built up a good crowd of regulars and was in charge of auditioning and hiring other musicians to fill the rest of the week. Cafe Romana was located on Burro Alley, a long narrow alley that connects Palace Avenue and San Francisco Street one block from the famous Santa Fe Plaza. It had excellent Italian food and a comfortable European ambience. The front door sat between two very tall bay windows with built-in benches, and at dusk the table was moved out of the left bay to accommodate the night’s musicians and their gear.

The dining area consisted of two rooms that had been combined by tearing down the wall between two small shops. The cash register and server area were at the back of the first room; the kitchen was behind the second. On the opposite side of the alley was a tall, solid wall broken only by an exit door and a loading door; this was the side of the historic Lensic Theatre. A small cafe in the middle of an alley isn’t the easiest place to attract passersby, so a speaker was set out on the sidewalk to broadcast whatever act was playing that evening. Curious pedestrians would move toward the music wafting down the alley, then the enticing aromas of garlic and fresh bread would pull them the rest of the way into the cafe. A poster in the window advertised live music all week, and business was good. One afternoon I was auditioning a folk duo. I had them playing through my speakers, so it was a good opportunity for me to walk through the restaurant and hear if there were any loud or dead spots in my setup. There was a good lunch crowd and I wandered between the tables discretely, focused on the music and watching the diners to see if they were enjoying the duo. Most of the patrons were couples, eating, laughing, and talking. The fact that they were talking comfortably, and not shouting over the music, was good. That they smiled up at the duo at the end of a song now and then, or clapped lightly, was good too. As I passed through the second half of the dining room I saw a dark haired guy in his forties eating alone at a corner table. He kept his gaze downward, concentrating on his plate of Ravioli with Alfredo Sauce. I hardly noticed him, but, maybe because I spent so much time eating alone myself, something about him drew my subconscious, the way a child in a crowded room of adults is drawn to another child. I returned to the duo and told them they could have Mondays, and then I left to run some errands. Three nights later, I was in the middle of a song when the door opened. I tilted my head from my microphone and looked up at the newcomer. My subconscious quickly retrieved the file: Tuesday. Lunch. Corner table. Ravioli.

“There’s that guy”, I thought. So many moments from those early days have blurred with time, but my first thought that night, upon seeing the man who would become the love of my life, has remained clear, if uninspired: “There’s that guy.” His eyes scanned the dining room, then he headed for the only empty seat in the place, a chair at a table for six. When you’ve spent thousands of nights performing, as I had, you can put the playing and singing on autopilot and get a little caught up in events as they unfold in front of you. You have a front row seat for the show, and the dramas and cast of characters are constantly changing. I’ve always found people endlessly fascinating, and performing is the perfect cover for covert people-watching.  I saw the waitress go over to the guy to take his order. She said something. He said something. She said something else. He frowned and said something back. She hesitated, unsure, then walked over to the register counter across the room from me and talked to the assistant manager. The assistant manager walked over to the guy and said something, whereupon the guy, looking resigned, got up from the table and walked over and leaned against the counter. He stood there, watching and listening. Playing busy clubs and restaurants, you get used to being in the background. That scene in Annie Hall, when Diane Keaton is singing in the nightclub while the noisy crowd and the ringing phone drown her out, always makes me laugh; it’s only a little exaggerated. I could perform all night long in the background, completely at ease, but if I started a song that made everyone suddenly stop talking and turn to listen, I would immediately tense up at the sudden attention. So the guy standing across the room, listening intently, yeah, he made me a little nervous. I had broken up with my musician boyfriend, Tim, a few weeks earlier and he’d come in to hear me play that night (a rare occurrence), in an effort to win me back. He was sitting at a table near me with two other musician friends, eating and talking, unaware of the small drama that had just played out halfway across the restaurant.

Now, going into this next part of the story, you have to understand a couple of things. First of all, I’m, at best, a mediocre guitar player. When I was a kid I learned the chords from a “Mel Bay Guitar Chords” book, and worked out some strumming and picking styles on my own. I hadn’t progressed much in the intervening years, but I played well enough to accompany myself in my solo gigs and to play rhythm guitar in bands. Secondly, being a working musician for most of my life, I couldn’t afford to buy sheet music every time I wanted to learn a new hit song. Instead, I would pop a cassette tape into my boom box, turn on the radio, and go about my day. Then, when the song I was waiting for came on, I’d make a mad dash for the RECORD button. (It’s amazing I ever got a single intro right - they almost never made it on to the tape.) I’d play the song back, stopping and starting the tape as I wrote down the lyrics. Then I’d play it over and over, figuring out the chords as best I could and writing them above the words. I did fine with the major, minor, flat, and seventh chord variations, but if the songwriter had used an alternate tuning, or thrown in a diminished chord with a demented pinky, I fudged it, knowing the average listener wasn’t likely to notice. That technique had worked well for 22 years, and in all that time, to the best of my knowledge, the writer of the song never actually rolled in to witness me completely mangling their carefully crafted chords. Knowing this, you’ll better understand my complete humiliation when, unaware that the famous songwriter was standing directly across the room from me, I launched blithely into Dan Fogelberg’s “Leader Of The Band”, his loving homage to his father. I played it every night; it was a crowd favorite, and, like many people, I thought of my own father while singing it. As the last chord faded, he headed for the door. Stopping by my amp, he said, “You’re very good.” I smiled and said, “Thank you”. “That’s a good song”, he said. Still feeling a little choked up, which that song does to you, I nodded and agreed, “That’s a great song.” He smiled, stuck his hand out, and said, “I’m Dan Fogelberg.”

When I was a kid, I got out of bed one night while my parents were taking a bath together to sneak candy from the freezer. Grandma had brought a one pound box of See’s chocolates from Santa Barbara on her last visit, and its siren song proved irresistible to a girl with insomnia and a sweet tooth. I popped two frozen chocolates in my mouth, put the box back, and hurried back toward my room. But just as I was passing the bathroom door, it opened, and Mom came out, warm and relaxed in her fuzzy robe. Concerned at my red face and puffy cheeks, she asked if I was feeling okay and felt my forehead. I couldn’t answer; the frozen orbs were like two large marbles in my mouth and the guilt and shame flooded my brain, rendering it useless. That’s exactly how I felt now, as I watched my hand reach up, of its own accord, to take Dan’s. Mortified, I stammered, “I’m…so sorry.” He laughed and, releasing my hand, began feeling around in his jacket and jeans for his wallet so he could put a tip in the large ceramic jar marked TIPS on the top of my amp. We chatted very briefly about...what? I have no idea; all the blood was racing between my face and my pounding heart, none of it was making it to my brain. Finally, to save him from his own awkward fumbling, I made a “don’t worry about it” wave and motioned to the little plastic gum ball dispenser next to my tip jar, saying, “That’s okay, have a piece of gum.” He stopped fumbling, smiled, said good night, and walked out the door. When he was out of sight, I leaned away from my mic, toward Tim and friends, and said quietly, “That was Dan Fogelberg.” They looked toward the alley, shocked. “What?! The guy at the counter?” “Yes.” I think some of us would have recognized him with the beard, maybe, and a little more weight, but he was coming off of a grueling split with his wife, Anastasia, and the pain and stress had taken their toll. When Rene, the assistant manager, found out that the guy he had ejected from the table for six was Dan Fogelberg, he was mortified,

gasping, “I threw Dan Fogelberg out of the restaurant!” But seating in the cafe was limited, so the rule was, if you wanted to sit and listen, you had to order food. So when the waitress went to take Dan’s order, and he said he just wanted a glass of wine, and seemed unwilling to budge, she had gone to Rene. And, as I’d watched the drama unfold, my mind had added things up logically, if erroneously: Didn’t order dinner. + Thin and haggard. + Couldn’t find money for a tip. = A once famous musician, fallen on hard times. I didn’t know; I’d never owned one of his albums, never been to one of his concerts, for all I knew he had stopped recording and touring years ago and was flat broke. Well, now I know that the reason he didn’t order dinner was because he had eaten elsewhere. He was thin because of stress and sorrow. He couldn’t find his wallet because he was naturally shy, and looking at me while we talked had him flustered. He told me later that, as he stood there at the counter, he’d seen a golden light around me that made him feel at peace. He hadn’t even noticed the mangled chords; it was the first time he’d ever felt he’d seen an aura. Both of our cupids had worked their magic that day. Dan had set out for lunch, intent on finding Italian food. He asked someone where he could go for some good ravioli. “Cafe Romana” came the immediately reply. Concentrating on his lunch, and lost in his thoughts, he didn’t see me walking around the room, listening to the auditioning musicians, but as he was leaving the restaurant he turned left, and my picture on the poster in the front window had stopped him in his tracks. For once, I’d spent the money for a professional headshot, and the overhead lighting and dark backdrop made my blonde hair glow, creating spider webs of light on the shoulders of the black turtleneck dress I was wearing.

“Who’s this?”, he thought. Then, “She’s probably married.” But he had come down from his ranch in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado with the express intention of looking for a lady, so he looked to see what nights I was performing.

The end of his marriage had been sudden and unexpected.  He’d been relaxing after a summer tour, at the old captain’s cottage he owned on Eggemoggin Reach, in Maine, waiting for Anastasia to join him there for his birthday. A woman assumed to be Anastasia’s friend, but who’d actually been working for months to break them up, called to tell Dan that Anastasia had left their Colorado home and moved in with another man.  He immediately flew back to try to work things out with Anastasia, but she made it clear that, for reasons of her own, she had no intention of getting back together with him. He felt hurt and betrayed, but once he realized the marriage was truly over, the hurt morphed into anger, which was easier for him to cope with. He started divorce proceedings, sent her all of her belongings, and called a rental agency in Santa Fe, requesting a casita in walking distance of the Plaza. Maybe fate is a freight train, barreling down a predetermined track, or maybe it’s as unpredictable as a feather loosed from a wing in flight. If it’s the former, I’m humbled at the generosity of the universe. If it’s the latter, I’m grateful to the capricious zephyr that pushed Dan my way. Because if the stranger he’d asked about ravioli had suggested a different restaurant, or if he’d turned right and missed seeing the poster in the window, someone else might be telling the story of how she met, and fell in love with, Dan Fogelberg in Santa Fe in the Fall of 1996. In the eleven years that followed, we would be in the middle of laughing, or making love, and he would suddenly stop and look at me intently and say, “Thank God for ravioli.”


Rebirth Dan’s father, musician and band leader Lawrence Fogelberg, had loved Santa Fe, driving his wife Margaret and their three sons all the way from Peoria, Illinois during summer vacations to stay at the La Fonda Hotel, which sits at the end of the historic Santa Fe Trail. Dan had fond memories of those trips; he recalled one night in particular, when he was just a little boy and the hotel restaurant had been cleared out for a Hopi Indian Buffalo Dance. La Plazuela restaurant sits in the center of the hotel and is lit in the daytime by a ceiling of skylights. A wrought iron rail surrounds the room on the second floor, where you can see hotel guests coming and going from their rooms, occasionally stopping to look down on the diners, fountain, tall ficus trees, and hundreds of hand painted glass panes. Larry and Margaret thought their youngest son might be frightened by the loud drums and masks, so they left him in the hotel room with his grandmother, Mim, and went downstairs with their two older boys to watch the dance. Once the drums and chanting started, Dan could not be contained. He hounded Mim until she agreed to let him look down on the dance from outside their room on the second floor. Grasping the railing in his little hands, he was thrilled by the spectacle below; the feathered costumes, the pounding of the drums; the native american chants. It struck a chord that would reverberate in him for the rest of his life. Now, forty years later, he passed the La Fonda each day on his walk from his rented casita to the plaza, enjoying the magical light, big skies, and flat roofed adobe architecture. His ranch manager had Saturdays and Sundays off, so Dan would drive the three hours back to Pagosa Springs, Colorado to oversee his 600 acre ranch for the weekends, then back to Santa Fe on Monday or Tuesday. Alone, or with his friend and bandmate Kenny Passarelli, he tried new restaurants,

explored the galleries, and enjoyed the music that rang out from the sidewalks, the plaza, and the bars. But foremost in his mind was filling the gaping hole in his heart. Dan returned to Cafe Romana (and ordered dinner) four times over the next five weeks. On my breaks it was customary for me to stop at different tables to chat briefly with diners about music, food, Santa Fe. During my first such chat with Dan, I quoted an obscure line from the film “This Is Spinal Tap”. Although there were two other women in town he was considering asking out, the Tap quote tipped the scales in my favor. Now that I’d met him, I was curious to hear Dan Fogelberg’s music, something other than the few hits I knew from the radio. At the record store in the Via Linda Mall, I thumbed through the CDs. None of the cover photos looked like him to me though, and I felt a little better about not recognizing him. When I saw the cover of “No Resemblance Whatsoever”, I pulled it out of the rack because, despite the title, it bore the biggest resemblance to the man who had come to the cafe to hear me sing. It also happened to be his most recent CD, released only the year before, in 1995. Maybe he wasn’t on the skids after all. I also bought “River Of Souls”, released in 1993, and headed home. I was living in my friend Rebecca’s house off Rodeo Road; she and her new husband, Nic, had purchased a house further out of town. Her old house was empty, and on the market, so she’d invited me to move in with my furniture so it would look homey and show well. We figured it would sell within a year. It sold in three months, and now I was living among boxes again, preparing to move back to the apartments out on Airport Road. I stuck “River of Souls” into my computer and began paying some bills. I was surprised by the variety of subject matter, from love songs to environmental pleas and political tirades. But when the title track began to play, I stopped writing and sat back, my whole being intent on listening. Strings hold a single haunting chord that slowly builds, while a classical guitar plays a lush Spanish-style intro. I’ve always been partial to songs with B3 organs or gut string guitars, and a good solo can thrill

me, but Dan’s guitar intro on “River Of Souls” touched my very core. Then his deep, soft voice sang, “I take my place along the shore, and I wait for the tide. It seems I’ve passed this way before, in an earlier time.” I played it over and over, impressed by the tasty guitar licks sprinkled throughout the song and loving the intro more each time. It was, for me, our prelude; that first thrill of chemical attraction, and Dan wasn’t even in the room. In the years to come, if we were at home, playing and singing together, or if I happened by while he was rehearsing, Dan would suddenly break into the “River of Souls” guitar intro with a roguish smile, knowing it would get him, at the very least, a kiss. I listened next to “No Resemblance Whatsoever”, and realized I had no idea who Dan Fogelberg was. Over the years, I’d performed “Longer”, “Leader of the Band”, and “Believe In Me,” all ballads. Now I was hearing jazz, bossanova, and rock. I was surprised and intrigued. Patricia, Cafe Romana’s manager, would seat Dan a little closer to me with each subsequent visit. She was convinced that he liked me, and was going to ask me out, and she was trying to help things along. I disagreed - I thought he was married, and told her so. But each time he came in, she would pick up a menu and lead him to a table near me, giving me a sly Cheshire Cat smile, as I smiled wide-eyed daggers back at her and began to sweat profusely. My folded paper “Song Menus” were on all of the tables. With over three hundred songs, from the 1930’s on up to the current hits of the day to choose from, they increased requests and tips. Dan was impressed that I knew so many songs, but he usually requested “Across The Universe” or “While My Guitar Gently Weeps”, by the Beatles. On his fourth visit to Cafe Romana, Patricia seated him at the table directly in front of me. He was so close I could have stretched out and kicked his chair. I continued singing as if I’d hardly noticed, but the sweat began dripping slowly down my arms to my elbows. Patricia went back and stood behind the counter with a triumphant smile. When I’d finished for the night, Dan invited me to sit with him. We talked for a bit and then he confided that he and his wife were separated. I think he saw concern on my face; I really didn’t want to get

caught up in another domestic drama. But he told me she was actually living with a man in Abiquiu and divorce proceedings were underway. So when he asked if I’d go with him to guitarist John Williams’ concert in a few weeks at the Saint Francis Auditorium, I said I would, and gave him my phone number. We were both dealing with some bruised egos, and were equally determined to break from our past relationship patterns. Dan was used to being pursued and had determined that this time he was going to be the pursuer. He’d been with Anastasia for ten years, and been faithful to her in all that time, and now he was ready to play the field. I was experiencing my own transitions of the heart. Tim had always been content to see me once a week. I was so happy when our band had rehearsals or a gig - it meant I’d get to see him. He and his wife, Amy, had split emotionally, but were still both living in their halved house. I’d asked him to move in with me numerous times, but he didn’t want to risk losing his legal stake in the house, so on we went. Twice he said he was getting back together with Amy, she was “losing it” and needed him, and both times I said I understood, and I’d still be his friend and bandmate. Looking back later, I realized that those were the only times he’d ever told me he loved me: “I love you, but I have to go back to Amy.” Then he’d come to rehearsal with scratches on his face, saying she’d attacked him with scissors while he was sleeping, and thrown his computer through the wall, and this was the final straw, they were done. But even when we were “on again” I was lonely, eating out by myself, going to movies alone. After a year and a half I’d had enough, and I told him so: Me: “I want to be in a committed relationship. I’m going to start dating.” Tim: “But I love you.” Me: “You said you just want to be friends who sleep together.” Tim: “My feelings have changed.” Well, my feelings had changed as well. Too many days of questioning what I was to him, and too many nights of crying myself to

sleep, had whittled them away. I was done. I told Tim we’d see how it went, just to end the conversation, but I reiterated that if I met someone I liked, I would go out with them. Two weeks later Dan walked in the door. His timing was perfect; Tim was really exerting himself: flowers, cards, coming to hear me play, he even wrote me a beautiful love song. In the past I’d always been a sucker for an impassioned apology, a love letter, or some other desperate Hail Mary after a break up, but going back had been a mistake every time. I was determined to stop repeating those previous patterns, and I was tired of being the pursuer; I wanted to be pursued. Once the John Williams concert date had been set, Dan began coming by every night I played. He’d help me tear down at the end of the gig and carry my big speakers to my car. We started walking to the Eldorado for a drink. He’d call me from the ranch on the weekends. One night he called and invited me to a Halloween party. It was going to be on the following Saturday night, November 2nd, which is Todos Santos, or All Soul’s night. Kenny and his girlfriend would be going as well. “I know it’s short notice,” he said, “and you probably don’t have a costume...” But I told him I did have a costume, and I’d love to go. The next day Tim called and I told him I was going to start dating. He asked if my date was with Dan and I confirmed his suspicion. He warned me that Dan was “on the rebound” and would only end up hurting me. When Dan called later that night, I was soaking in the tub, sore from lifting boxes. I told him about Tim’s “rebound” warning. He thought about it for a moment, then said, “That’s funny, it feels more like reBIRTH.” Ping! Sigh.


Driving Through The American Night The night of the Halloween party arrived and I was ready with time to spare. I hate first dates, so I was tense. As I paced and circled my small new apartment waiting for Dan to arrive, I began to question the appropriateness of my costume. Three years earlier, I’d been living in Jackson Hole, Wyoming and performing in the Silver Dollar Bar at the Wort Hotel. The film “Batman Returns” had come out recently, with Michelle Pfeiffer as Catwoman, so for Halloween I decided to make a Catwoman costume. Since there were probably going to be bright, shiny Catwomen prowling all the bars, I thought I’d portray her the way she appeared at the end of her violent fight with The Penguin. I bought the sewing pattern and some stretchy, glossy black vinyl fabric for the leotard and fake leather for the bodice, and then I pinned and cut and sewed myself a feline superhero skin. On Halloween night, I carefully pulled it on - it fit and clung like hot tar. I gave the ears a final shaping, then I combed some of my hair out of a few of tears in the top of the mask and ratted it. A few rips and loose stitches here and there, and some talcum powder splashes for concrete dust, and I was suitably un-shiny. My costume was a hit at the bar and the following morning I rolled it up and put it in a plastic grocery bag, which is where it had been until I’d taken it out and poured myself back into it tonight. Now I looked in the mirror and wondered what in the world I’d been thinking. In desperation I looked from my makeup bag to my craft supplies - did I have time to throw together a different costume? Some eye pencil freckles and red yarn hair, and a sweet, improvised Raggedy Ann dress? No, Dan was due at any moment. I was stressing big time. I was probably breaking any number of dating etiquette rules. “Rule #75. Attention, ladies! Masks and latex leotards should not be worn until endearments have been exchanged

and rules of engagement have been established. If worn prematurely, your date will assume you are easy; kinky; dangerous. This will encourage Mr. Wrong, but send Mr. Right back into the arms of his ex-girlfriend.” He was half an hour late. Now I was becoming concerned about the dating message he was sending, with his tardiness. I thought, “If he thinks he can bring some bullshit rock star attitude...”. I reapplied my deodorant again, no small feat when your attire is basically a wet suit with a leather bustier over it. The apartment complex was cheaply built, and every chair scrape and cabinet closing in the unit above mine was amplified by the empty space between their floor and my ceiling. The pounding footsteps overhead ramped my stress level up another notch. When the knock on the door finally came I was so worked up I wasn’t even thinking about the costume anymore. I strode purposely to the door in my black spike-heels and threw it open. Hand on hip, I said, “You’re late.” I can still see him standing there in his homemade Old West costume: jeans, cowboy boots, tan suede vest, and a gleaming silver star proclaiming him, “Sheriff”. I’d caught him mid-offering: a red rose in his hand, a greeting on his lips. Now he stood, unmoving, an unwitting Perseus turned to stone at the sight of a cranky Medusa. He held the rose out to me. “I got lost”, he said. I ushered him in from the cold and now he pulled it together enough to explain that he had asked someone for directions to my unit and had ended up wandering around the large complex for half an hour before finding my apartment. He told me my costume was amazing and I could tell he meant it. I breathed. I purred. We were off with a BANG. Following him out to his truck on the narrow cement walkway, I noticed he was wearing a sweet smoky scent. It was intoxicating. We drove to the party in his big white ranch truck. The gallery was in a warehouse-style building with polished cement floors and metal rafters criss crossing the ceiling. Kenny and his date weren’t there yet so we wandered about, looking at the art on the walls while the band finished setting up. We were both nervous, it

being our first date, and me dressed in latex and all, so I suggested we head to the bar, for a shot of tequila. Now, one of the things Dan had liked about Anastasia when they got together was that the girl could party. This was the late 80’s and Dan’s career was still in high gear. The parties went into the early morning hours with lots of smoking, snorting, and drinking. But somewhere in the 90‘s, Dan grew weary of the excessive partying, and the way it made him feel the next day. He desperately wanted to quit smoking and to cut back on the booze, hard to do when everyone around you is doing both. And Anastasia’s drink of choice? Tequila. It was my drink of choice as well, and had been for many years. I started performing in bar bands when I was eighteen. ABC (State of California, Department of Alcoholic Beverage Control) regulations stated that, being a minor, I had to leave the public bar area when I wasn’t on the stage. So, six nights a week, four times a night, I sat in the kitchen and listened to the muffled shouts and laughter of a night club in full swing. The boys in the band were more than willing to accommodate me, but the only glasses they could smuggle to the kitchen were shot glasses. I wasn’t an experienced drinker, but I knew I liked Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill Wine, so they brought me Strawberry Tequila. I eventually graduated to fine tequila with a Coke back, which carried me through thousands of nights performing in bars and restaurants. It took a few years of futzing with the dosage but in the end I learned that my limit was two shots per night, and that’s where I would stop. So when I mentioned tequila, huge areas of Dan’s brain were screaming “Warning! Danger!”. And maybe he would have listened to those warnings, if his date had been some half-hearted Raggedy Ann. But what red blooded man is going to run from Catwoman? I led the way through the crowd, and at one point I turned to make sure I hadn’t lost him. He looked anything but lost, following the svelte blonde in the

shiny black leotard through the crowd, with a big, dazed grin on his face. We threw back our drinks and the band started playing, so we moved toward the dance floor. I’d been apprehensive about my costume at my apartment, but I blended right in here. Santa Fe is a town of artistic souls who aren’t afraid to let their freak flags fly on any given day, so Halloween is extreme. We were surrounded by aliens, tin men, vampires, characters from “Rocky Horror Picture Show” and “Cats”, and all done with panache and great attention to detail. As I drew my share of appreciative nods and meows, I started relaxing. More than almost anything, I love to dance. The music; the tequila; my handsome, sweet-smelling Sheriff; it all fell into place for me. We found that we moved well together, and all inhibition fell away as I shimmied and whirled, smiling and seducing with the kind of confidence that thrives behind a mask. Kenny and Janelle arrived and I liked them both right away. The rest of the party is a blur of laughter and dancing and a growing intense attraction. When the lights came up we said goodnight to Kenny and Janelle and headed back toward my apartment. Then, we drove right past it. I pointed this out, hesitantly. “Um, that was my apartment…” but Dan was really happy for the first time in a very long time, and he didn’t want the night to end. “I know,” he said, “but, let’s just drive through the American night for a while.” And so we did. We headed south on I-25, driving by the light of a half moon. We listened to the radio and talked, and then, somewhere in the rolling hills of red dirt and piñon trees before Albuquerque, we reluctantly turned around. When we got back to my apartment Dan walked me to the door and we said goodnight, both too shy to initiate a kiss. Copyright ©2016 Jean Fogelberg, all rights reserved.