Lily has been here five months since the dreary December morning when she jumped into the truck stinking like bile and mud.

Now she wrestles with Bandit, walks a wide circle around Hershey's growl, and nudges and prods Ozzy like a bird perched on the rim of mom's nest. As soon as he can get away, the pug checks the floor for cat food crumbs and the treat wedged behind a rusted baseboard.

Tonight we sat outside at a restaurant and bar and Jerry drank a margarita as the landscape lights popped on. The moon crept through tree limbs with foggy light dusting our tabletop.

I forgot to buy wine on the way here, I said.

Should have gone when I said, Jerry tells me.

But when I got home I just wanted to get the dogs out for exercise.

Lily and I down the road and back. Ozzy out to snort around and pee on my roses. Hershey grabbing for the tennis ball and chomping my thumb.

Out in the woods with my fist yanked against my ribs I curl over the pain burning my fingers. I look at the strips of blood filling snag marks in two fingers and a thumb.

Later as Jerry's ice settles in his margarita glass and someone across the patio laughs, I tap against the ripe blueberry colors setting under my thumb nail.

Could I buy a bottle of wine, I ask the waiter? I would like to have a glass here, but I would like to bring the bottle home.

He nods.

Jerry's second margarita is as shimmering and pretty as the first. Bats flap against the moon as its pale, rounding face slips higher among the tree limbs.

How much should we leave for a tip, I overhear a girl ask. From the table's overloaded appearance with stacks if discarded dishes, baskets emptied of appetizers, and drink glasses drained with sliced lime curled into the bottom, I have to guess they owe their waiter some thanks.

Four dollars, her boyfriend tells her, snapping his phone shut as he finishes with his tip calculator.

Jerry leans forward, fingers around his glass, with a comment brewing.

Did you have a question about the wine, a different waiter asks.

I was hoping to buy a glass, but also take the bottle home.

Oh. OK.

He leaves and heads toward the bartender.

The warm air is dressed with scents of things in bloom. Peonies, wild daisies, tea roses, and a fading honeysuckle linger. Woven into the breeze are suggestions of flowers propped on stems bending downward with sunset. Jerry's motorcycle sits in the corner with the handlebars twisted to the side. Minutes ago his speaker shook with David Alan Coe.

Hi. You had a question about wine?

Yes, I say to a third new face.

I was hoping to buy a bottle.

Well, I would have to pour at least 5 ounces, he said. (I think) I could do that and record it.

That's exactly what I want! Please, pour me a glass!

Jerry adds: That's what we were hoping to do. Could you pour her a glass and we'll take the bottle home.

Sure, the waiter said.

I would like the Merlot, I say.

A minute later Jerry is looking over my shoulder. He tells me that the waiter is climbing the bar. He is climbing it and reaching for the wine.

Then he pops up next to the table and pours.

Why was that so hard!

All the way home I look at the leaves and rocks and river's reflection wondering, where does all the light go? Where does it go after my eyes are done with it?

At home with the dogs fed and laundry going, Lily comes to sit under the computer desk where she often sleeps to my clacking keys.

I remember a trip to New York state sitting outside a general store/gas stop/ ice cream shoppe where I saw a man and a child in a pick up truck. The man's posture was a body carrying a cement brick of sorrow on his shoulders. His head was bent and dipped down where he covered his face behind a hand. His child sat beside him.

What do you think is wrong, I asked Jerry.

Only one thing could do that. A woman, he said.