he was languid, he was smooth

he was reaching for her soul

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He was a grungy old guy. Liked women and booze and would stay at the bar long after his ride left him sitting with his elbows in sticky dried brandy, his mind on a woman he lost, and eyes on the dance floor.

Got a ride home? I asked him.

You're my ride home, he said.

Can't bring you tonight….

Well, I'll walk then.

Later as the neon faded and the limbo dimmed, he walked toward a few guys shuffling around in back.

Anyone headed toward Monroe? he asked.

I can take you home, M. said.

Bumping his arm I said, so you got your ride.

He whispered, I love to dance, and I didn't want to be home alone.

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I took a deep breath as gentle mist turned to sudden rain, pounding down the iris petals and seeping through my hair. Then I cried. I mean, who would know.

I cupped my hands against my heart like a butterfly, and wished. And wished. I tried to sort it all out while I spun the mower blades over long grass, around spirea and forget-me-nots and budding hydrangea blooms. And before that I managed third gear on my own on the dirt bike while Jerry leaned against a stop sign like a dad watching his kid ride a Schwinn all alone.