THE LAST DAY

I honestly didn’t think I’d ever see you again.

(her looking forward)

I reserve the right to be mad, to be disappointed.  But I always love you.

(Pause)

It’s always at least 90% Love.

10% Hate?

There’s even love mixed into the hate somewhere.

So now?  This broken down old man in his broken down old house?

(She looked around, all the smells, all the failures piling up around him.  And the sickness, the ultimate failure of them all, the failure of the body.  Having to clean him after he’d soiled himself, yet again.  After all the sex jokes weren’t funny anymore.)

She felt a tear coming up, making it difficult to speak.

“A million percent.”

==

In the car, she felt the weight of the world.  A dream, like she was underwater, but the water had the thickness and density of steel.  She was not surprised by the sense of weight, or breathlessness, or even the sense that she had lost all feeling in her body.  There might not even be a body left to feel, and certainly no bit that she could find to wiggle. Surprisingly, there was no fear or pain.  

She focused on the hand in front of her, familiar yet unidentifiable.  Weathered, old, some blood of course.  His hand, maybe.  Still on a steering wheel.  Like it looked while gripping a guitar.  It shocked her to realize that it was hers.  There was an odd void at the edge of her shoulder and lots of blood around it.  The hand was attached to an arm that wasn’t attached to her any longer.

That’s when she knew.  And when she stopped fighting the blissful sleep that was calling to her.

Or maybe that was the music.

==

As soon as she left on her errands, “I’ll get your pills and try to make my 2 o’clock with the client.  So I should be back by 6, 7 at the latest. You sure you’ll be okay?”

Looking at the clock, he knew he’d have 10 hours at most. No time to spare.  He used all his energy to crawl to the bathroom cabinet where he had been hoarding his pills.

“Enough to kill a horse,” she had said.

He wondered if she knew.  Or if she suspected.  He hated to do this to her.  To leave her to clean up yet another of his messes.  But at least she would know how to set things in order.  She’d be happy to go through all the memorabilia, disperse his “estate”.  He wondered yet again, if she’d think of the Farmhouse & Barn as a burden or a treasure.  He included a suggestion, but not a requirement, in the will for her to make it into a concert center.  She’d like that. Hosting musicians as she got older.  Maybe she’d find someone to replace him.

Purpose, that’s what he’d be leaving her.

He got out his sealed bottle of whisky from 1981.

“To be used in extreme emergency!” it said in his 1981 handwriting.

To wash down the pills, he thought.  Plus, if I cut it with water, I won’t get sick.

But as a precaution, he had a filtered jug of water next to him.

After all these years of not drinking, he didn’t trust his body to not betray him.

Again.

Gonna Hurt Tomorra'

LINER NOTES:

“I Love The Way You’re Breaking My Heart”

sounds sincere and slow. Like she was singing directly to him. A different take is her “vulnerable and terrible” voice.  Playing around.  This is closer to Lauren Bacall.

==

SHOWER:

PLOT:

Fight ON THE ROAD:

she’s backing him up & he brings her onstage for encores & intros for 1st & 2nd act.  She’s still his main audience member, young 20’s, he knows enough to keep her out of the spotlight.  BUT maybe he brings her on to sing the SAD songs, because she’s living the heartache every day!! Her emotions are closer tot he surface.

(He knows he can’t seduce her anymore, so he gets at her from the inside.  Coaxes the music from her)

She clowns around with a song

“I Love the Way You’re Breaking My Heart”

(Like she’s Betty Boop)

“Don’t sing that song to me!  Sing it to HIM!”

But what if he’s in the audience?

Sing it anyway!!  That’s what we want to hear!

(Um, okay, give me a second.  Okay. GOT IT>)

She sang with such intimacy, it made him cry to know it wasn’t for him.

“He needs me, much more than you ever have. Don’t be jealous now!”

“I’m not, there’s just something about him that strikes a wrong note,”

“Mental illness is not easy.  I’ve been putting up with yours for years.  Perfect training, I’d say!”

“What does he have”

“Mixed Bipolar”

“What does that mean?”

“He says it’s the worst you can have”

“He does, does he? Gee, poor guy!”

“You just don’t get it . . .”

No, I think YOU don’t get it.  When is he going to come see you?

When we get closer to town!

But I thought you weren’t sure he’d come.  That he’s a shut-in.

Yeah, so?  Maybe he won’t make it that day.  I don’t need HIM to come to prove that he LOVES me!”

If he doesn’t show up for you, how are you ever going to get anything from him?

“He asked me to be patient!

Patient for what?  Are you sure he’s not playing games with you?

Absolutely sure.  He’s womderful! you’re just jealous that someone can love so PURELY.

I see LOVE on your face right now. I see you in love, PURELY.  And I just want to make sure he deserves this BEST part of you.  

Thanks.  He does, trust me. He does.

==

He shows up at a concert and COMPLETELY SURPRISES her.

She tries to introduce him, but he is speechless & grinning like an idiot, or like he’s on something.  Weird.

She drives back to the motel.  5 am.  They had stayed up the whole night.  And he never said a word to her.  Nothing towards explanation.

(This should NOT echo with the ending!!)

She’s glowing.

He sees her in the sunshine in the parking lot.  She’s shivering slightly, hugs him chastley when he comes out with a blanket for her. So in love.  

He’ll be back, he said.  He wrote that’s he’s coming tonight.

Shows the napkin.

“tonite” he scrawled, in handwriting of a 5 year old.

This guy has a PhD.  There is something really WRONG here.

As she walks back to the motel for some sleep, he realizes that he’s suddenly relieved that she came back alive.

==

She sings beautifully that night.  Only a few more nights on this tour left, 20/23.  She makes him cry, although he’s careful to hide it in the sweat towel he uses to wipe down his guitar and face.

She sings like this guyis in the audience, even though he’s asked all the front of house people to point this guy out.

He asks her at intermission if he’s come back.

No, well, at least he hasn’t told me.

(Like that time when he was across the country and didn’t tell you if he had bullets for that gun?)

He might just be hanging out in the back.  Or maybe he’ll sneak in later.  He might just be in the back of the house, among those people we can’t see clearly.  He doesn’t want to disturb my concentration in the middle of a show.  he knows how thrilled I get just by seeing him.

(This is the selfish kind of behavior used by abusers to control their subjects, he thought. She’s letting it happen.  She loves it somehow.  Poor kid.  He wanted to be able to slap the hormones right out of her.  And damn, he wished he had a fraction of that power over her.  Maybe that’s what he had, once upon a time.  No, this power is unnatural.  

Suddenly, he sees this other guy for who he really is.  A selfish bastard.  Like he used to be.  Like he IS.  Suddenly the whole idea of love & devotion sours for him.

He kicks at the ground.

Knowing that there will be a crash coming in her future.

==

When he finds her later, in the motel room, with the “tonite” napkin in her hand and the phone off the hook, the only thing that surprises him is that she left the door open.

“He hung himself.  The woods near where we grew up. I know the tree.  We used to swing from it, like we were Tarzan.”

He tries to hug her but she has wedged herself between the nightstand and the wall.  Like a scared animal.

She cries and stops and cries some more.

He stays with her for as long as he can, sitting on the edge of the bed, unable to look her in the eye.  

He offers to leave, but she won’t let him.

He manages to get her into bed and take off her shoes and some of the outerwear, just enough to get her comfortable.  He treats her like someone in a hospital, sick with some mysterious internal injury.  Must be gently moved.  No jokes, no sex.  But he’s also careful not to touch her too much.

She skips the last 3 shows, he drives 80 miles out of his way to make sure she’s delivered into another friend’s hands.

He doesn’t see her for another 2 years.

Love The Way You're Breaking My Heart

With Plenty of Money: Revised

If they had a weekly television show of their own, she liked to think this would be their theme song.

Everytime they got into the car on the way to a gig, every time they began singing for the day, every rehearsal, it was the first song they started with.  Like a kiss, an embrace, an exercise you can do well, a reason to remind you of why you do this.  A game.

Vocal exercise as well, there was also enough wiggle room for them to both play around with.  Different every time.

When they did it as an encore (rarely, and only if they were both in a REALLY good mood),

She'd open with a funny (awful) voice, a variation of Betty Boop.  Then she'd flow into the "Honey" voice, and then (supposedly) hand it off to him.  According to signals-she'd hold onto her clothing or not-they would include the Ventriloquist act.  Not something she could pull off everyday, but when she did, it was incredible.  She pulled out her gravely Old Man Voice (which he admitted sounded better than his voice).

She thought about how true it was for them.

They only needed money to go out to breakfast at diners, her one big indulgence.  This life was feast or famine, she knew it well.  They were often feted and treated to great dinners, in people's homes and at great restaurants.

He was a picky eater, macrobiotics,etc.  But she also suspected that it was a Jack Benny affectation; he refused to eat outside his house not because of the non-healthy options, but because he was cheap.  (Of course, there WAS the beautiful refurbished barn in back which showed that his heart and money were both in the right place.  It doubled as a rehearsal space, recording studio and dance floor. It made her feel that THAT was the Standard.  Everything else could be compromised.  But the music was primary)

She preferred diners for breakfasts, mostly because of the unlimited supply of coffee (which made her horny).  Besides, if they had missed the "normal" breakfast window, she was always happy to order any protein.  As long as she could get her coffee.

The only reason to get to a diner before 10 was to get the day off to a good start.

Otherwise, he'd be happy to stay in bed until 12.  (With or without her) and if there was no event at night, he'd be back in bed by 7.  In Winter, the lack of sunlight would reduce the day to a few hours.  As long as there was good sex happening (between them, or them in parallel, ) all was fine.

Mirror, Mirror

EARLY PLOT: ON THE AIR

She was half terrified and half thrilled to be working for this guy. Okay, maybe half bored with it all too.  Of all the people she could be working with, it was a thrill to work with a hero.  And not just because you get to GET OVER all the excitement by seeing them day to day.  She had prided herself on being jaded about fame, and was especially proud of how she acted around him.  Betraying nothing.

Especially because she suspected he had forgotten her.  It was a decade later, and she had been just one of MANY girls who followed him.  He couldn’t possibly remember her name, much less her face.  She had changed so much anyway, her hair was short now, and a different color every week.

There WAS that one concert, she must’ve been 16, she finally worked up the courage to ASK him. She had a sense that he’d help her lose her virginity, but she wanted to appear more grownup, and didn’t want him to think she was still a virgin.  Or that she was 16.  Instead of getting him into a hotel room, or any situation with a bed, she wanted to do SOMETHING dirty with him.  It drove her crazy at every concert.  Since that first time she asked him for a kiss during intermission and he slipped her the tongue.  He was picking up on HER.  Her unique beauty; lifted her above the crowd.  Granted, maybe it was just because she had ASKED for the kiss.  What if you were able to ASK for what it was you wanted? Wouldn’t the very ACT of putting it into words make it much more lucky?

Buoyed by the confidence of the kiss (well, kisses, there were a total of 5, from 8 concerts, she had to wait in line-literally for each of them), she finally had an idea.

Ask him, before you chicken out. Do everything the MOMENT you think of it!  Do it!!

“Hey, I have a bunch of colored markers.  I was wondering if you’d like to draw on my breasts?”

It came out so casually that he had to ask her to repeat herself (Re”Peter”).  But he asked with such a smile that she had a feeling like she was asking for a million dollar lottery ticket and he was more than happy to hand it to her.  Finally! She had landed on a request that he probably hadn’t gotten in a while.

She had scouted out the downstairs Handicapped bathroom; a perfect spot.  A locked door, a small room, big enough to even appear less than bathroom-like.  There was even a mirror, so she’d be able to see everything immediately.

He had said 10 minutes.  Somehow that stretched into 15 or 20 minutes, and seemed like forever.  Especially because her mom was waiting outside in the car, in the cold.  Her mom had NO interest in music, especially not THIS music.  Maybe she should be grateful about this, especially as she had no license of her own.  THAT was love.  

And there she was, trying not to let anyone else into her bathroom (especially if they were going to stink it up for Her Special Moment).   But someone came by, doing that particular dance and she couldn’t tell them the reason she was barring the door.

Those 20 minutes quickly devolved from sheer excitement at her own brazenness, to terror, to mild nervousness, to an existential angst about being a bad feminist and daughter and planted seed of insecurity she would carry with her for the rest of her life. The humiliation of loving a Rock Star who was loved by a million other girls, and wasting your life waiting for a few moments of his meager attentions.

But then he came striding down the hallway, a huge grin on his face.  He probably had told all the boys in his dressing room.  And they all had a good laugh.  She tried hard to take pride in this; that for a few minutes, HERS were the enviable breasts.  The moment deflated somewhat as they had to make small talk outside the bathroom. (SCENE)  Someone exited a few minutes later and she could still smell the sourness of someone else’s body odor.  

He didn’t seem to mind.  Still grinning wildly, like a kid on Christmas.  

“What would you like me to draw?”

“Whatever you are in the mood for.  And include a signature, if you don’t mind.”

“But of course!”

She took off her sweater.  Then a thin turtleneck.  There should be more small talk, she had lots of layers; it was winter, after all.

“You sure you don’t mind doing this?”

He stood there, practically drooling, like the wolf in a storybook she once had, who was inches away from a fat little pig.

“No, not at all!!”

Somehow his eyes turned into that of a teenage boys; all the teenage boys who had tried so hard to get her to say yes in the back of their cars or sitting on a porch.  The Game.  And here she was, letting him win so easily.  What must his life be like?  Would he have ever been the “Type” to ask?  She decided not.  That teenage glance made him look shy, and even a little scared.  

As she took off her bra, suddenly, she felt as if SHE were the Rock Star.  The power shifted in the room, and even with just the two of them and the toilet, it seemed like all the light shifted from the porcelain to her two glowing orbs. Somehow, she felt like her real self had been revealed.

Of course, and she had a feeling this is where his experience came in, he dove in and began kissing her.  She easily surrendered to his embrace, even though she felt well aware of her skin against his clothes and his full beard.  Like he was completely covered and she was completely exposed.  Like that painting, Je Dejeuner Sur L’Herbe.  The men all clothed and the women all naked. It was excellent to imagine herself in the role of muse at that moment. No matter how self-orchestrated and self-conscious it was. She was especially happy not to have to remove her jeans and expose her cellulite.

Both of them did some giggling after the embrace, and he was careful and awkward, trying to be a gentleman and only touch her breasts with the tip of the markers, instead of holding the skin taut.  They laughed again and again, a parlor game.  He tried to finish with a flourish and cried “Voila!” as if it was the final stroke on the Mona Lisa.

“Can you tell what it is?” as he positioned her in front of the mirror.

She was hoping for something clever, or surprisingly artistic.

“It’s a pair of breasts!” he proclaimed proudly.

She couldn’t make out anything except some squiggles.

He politely helped her back on with her clothes.  Complimenting her purple bra-which she wore all the time.  Helping her with the clasps; he was thoughtful enough to ask her which rows she preferred.  A detail to carry forth towards future boyfriends.  

They parted with a handshake, growing more formal as they separated.  

She took a few pictures, in the mirrors of her friend’s houses when she could, for the next week.  It was a secret to carry upon herself.  She traced the lines over and over again after every shower until it didn’t resemble the original.  Like a game of Telephone.  

It wasn’t until she’d been working for him for 3 months that he stopped her one night as they were leaving the station.

“Hey, I have some markers.  Are you in the mood to do some drawing?”

I'm Free From Your Spell

All this?  No, I'm not.  I'm just sick of it really.  To quote him, "The Thrill is Gone". BBKING

http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/bbking/thethrillisgone.html
You know I'm free, free now baby
I'm free from your spell
Oh I'm free, free, free now
I'm free from your spell
And now that it's all over
All I can do is wish you well
==
After a great party/concert/they were both revved up by the crowd.  He got them all in the door, but all the girls loved HER.
Complimenting her & getting her autograph:
I'll tell you what Annie Ross told me.  "Never Stop Singing!"
She's supportive of all the girls.
At the afterparty, she notices that everyone is crowding around him.
"Yeah, funny to see YOU here.  Everyone else is at YOUR party back at the hotel!"
My party?
Yeah, he told everyone to head over to the hotel
Oh he did, did he??
She walks over to him. You got rid of everyone?
Yeah.  My people rented this room until 2.  You're welcome to have your own party wherever you want.
I'm done with you.
What?
I'm done with your games.
It's not a GAME, honey, it's just that I
You're furious that people LIKED me.  That I took the spotlight away from you.
You're always doing that, I should be used to it by now.
I can't take this anymore.  Bye.
What? (He follows her into the parking lot)
No, this is it. This is the last time.
But what about tomorrow night's show?
She drives off in the van with all the instruments.

This Hour is Our Someday + Flashback

“This Our is Hour Someday” Mondegreen

50 Shades of Mondegreen (Shades of Grey/50 Shades)

He’s singing: “She had a To Do list . . . ”

in the kitchen while he’s chopping greens for an omellette.

They sang at a place close enough to his farmhouse that they got home at a reasonable hour, made tender love in the morning and now, shile she’s napping off the orgasm, he’s going to surprise her with eggs.

There was a song last night, they sing it all the time, but lately, he’s been getting shivers everytime she comes to the line about “This hour is our someday”, something about seizing the moment and how THIS is as good as it will ever get for them.  He’s inclined to agree, but he sees much bigger things for her.

She has a lovely voice, and if he could get her in front of the right people, she could get a contract.  Go on without him. He’s more than happy to have her, but she’s too good to him and for him.  Its only right for him to play Svengali and Pygmalion (wait, that was the name of the statue-no Galatea)

She’s just another temporary rest stop on the highway.

by the time he’s done, he will have talked himself out of proposing to her. And turned back into his grumpy old man view of the world

The last line would be:

“There’s no more maple syrup,” he growled as he picked up his guitar and began noodling around with a blues lick.  

She knew that his meant the brief moment of sunshine was over and made sure to grab a book off the shelf so she would have company over her eggs and dry pancakes.

The lovelier his music got, the more intensely beautiful, the worse his mood. Trying to get him out of it: joking, sexy, demanding, none of it worked.  She preferred having other people around mornings like this.  It made her feel less lonely.

She had read an interview with him recently.  Something about his last best chance. Some girl (certainly not her) that he had been mooning over.   As a separate question, the interviewer (a girl who was clearly flirting with him and he with her, so much so that she was certainly

==

EARLY ON at the RADIO STATION??)

I have a nurse friend who won’t give me a shot in the ass. Something about her professional honor or some other piece of legal bullshit she signed.  Such a letigious society!  Everyone’s afraid of everything!! Here, you do it!!

He pulled down enough of his pants that she was able to get a good detailed view of his naked left buttcheek. Freckled and pale, it resembled nothing close to what she remembered from the posters she hung on the wall as a kid. Flaccid and fleshy, How could she have ever been attracted to THAT?

Besides, the NURSE probably had a legit reason, these days people were always being sued.  She didn’t have any such oligation.  Sure, he said it was an “herbal remedy”, but that could mean anything from a useless vitamin or herb from some aromatherapy person to some kind of weird drug.  He’s had a history and as far as she knew, he was in AA.  But she was just an intern.  No power. No nursing degree. He could be shooting heroin.  She could be arrested for shooting heroin into his butt.

She made a mental note to wipe her prints off the syringe and to make sure she was NOT the last person to have seen him alive.  She just had to get him to the ribbon cutting ceremony.  If he dropped dead, she would just walk away slowly.

I Remember Xmas

Sometimes he had a voice like John Denver.  Sensitive and vulnerable.  A singing, thinking, gentle man that you just want to hold.

A man of soft shadows, twinkling lights.  But all he has to do is sing quietly and manage the chord shifts.  In hushed tones, it sounds sincere.  That was the agony of his magic.

And then, he comes through-a loud bridge that betrays the real him, stretching beyond his abilities; it's not flattering when he cries out for attention.

If only he had the luck to be in a recording studio in his best moments.  But he used up all his good luck early on.

Standing at the back of the room, she liked hiding out in the dark. Just watching, not trying to have the conversation, not hearing him interrupt her.

1969 was the year he never liked to talk about.  1970-75 were gone to him.  1969 was the Year of The Bad Choice.  He escaped a contract.  Had to pay through the nose, but hey, money never meant a lot. And besides, there was plenty around.  Except for that half a million that he loaned to his friend to buy a boat.  Even now- this famous man sails the world, leaving him on the shore looking at the boat.  Staring at the tideswell of music he helped create.

I Remember Christmas by Peter Tork

And I do appreciate your bein' round

Damnit!! I left my iPod there!! She thought, getting into the car for her fool's errand.

He was so close to dying that it seemed ridiculous to go pick up a refill, but deep down she was eager for the respite.  And who was she to really argue, if he only took 2 doses of the 10-day pain killer, it was still two days of life without pain.

It was too late already, he had just begun to fall into a good sleep as she was leaving that she'd rather make the trip in silence than go back in and disturb him.  He might have even had it on as she was getting ready to go.

Besides, it was likely that his iPod was around somewhere . . . Aha! Glove compartment!
She had instructed the nurse to always keep it with him when he drove his car, helped keep him calm behind the wheel. Yes, it was the one she loaded for him because he didn't know how to do it himself.

....

She didn't even see the semi, coming up behind her on her left. A blindspot, always blindsiding her,

She and the car were almost completely destroyed except for one thing. That magic little deck of cards was fine and kept playing song after song. Maybe the wheel function was broken or some of the speakers were crushed but she still heard the music.

Which was very lucky for her because it took them hours to even find her. And by then it was just barely too late.

Nothing else seemed to work in her either, she couldn't see or move and oddly enough was feeling no pain. Her memories took over and it was like watching a movie about stuff that happened to other people.

And him.

Since his nurse had quit and he had been mean to every last friend relative and employee, she was the only one who knew where he was. Discovered a fewer days later in his house, he had long since expired. The battery in the iPod was dead too, having played through the entire playlist of more than 10,000 songs.

Prologue: Nobody in Particular

This CD release is an exciting opportunity to bring the full works of Nobody in Particular in one collection for the first time.

They had recorded together before they officially became a duet.  She had sung backup on a few of his independent recordings, which were only made available at shows on the road.  It was a low-tech operation, he'd joke.  He'd still answer every fan letter by hand (and even 30 years later, he was still getting fan mail from his original groupies), but the CD orders took sometimes as long as 3 years to process.

Legend has it that she began working for him as an intern at the Radio Station (and supposedly did a lot of the programming and propping him up during those years as well).  He was still touring as a solo act, or with his vanity band, but she was often tagged in photos and credited as "Road Manager".  Their first official album as a duo, "Handsnaps and Fingerclaps" was originally released a full decade after they had met.  The cover art is a blurry picture taken of them standing on an outcropping of rock, which scholars estimate to be in the neighborhood of Washington Heights, NYC, a place where she had lived intermittently.

Their second album contained mostly songs of her voice and his arrangements, his voice having already begun its losing battle with esophageal cancer. The bonus tracks presented here span a wide range of time and style, especially the bonus live tracks, exemplifying their legendary status as the "greatest duo that will never be Anybody in Particular".

The last notable item that haunts every reviewer is the occasions of their deaths.  Hers is recorded as ---, and his is recorded as ----, just a few days later.  It had been at least 20 years since they had performed together and sources close to both of them deny any known contact in the years leading up to their deaths.  They had died in different states, literally and figuratively.  Her in a car accident in Massachusetts and he of cancer in his home in Connecticut.  The temptation is to imagine a deep psychic connection between the two.  2 days is not enough time for him to have seen her obituary in a paper, nor does it seem likely that in those days his local paper would have even carried it.

The one mystery we don't have is the magic of their music, which we-at Rock 'Em Records-hope you will enjoy their singing-and their clever patter- as we do.  Enjoy!!

Come As Close As The Air

"You comfortable?"
"Sure, I'm just a little cold."
"Still?"
"Still, like always, it seems.  Now."

It was a reference to a discussion they'd had earlier, about how the dying always seem to be cold.  She wanted him to be just seeking sympathy, but it seemed like the time for all that had passed.  So easy, like watching a quarter roll under the Coke machine and come to a rest just out of sight.  So easy, to have yesterday's arguments and issues gone in this silence.

She sat next to the hospital bed that had replaced his oak dining table. He was gaunt and tired looking.  Everything smelled funny and not recognizable.  She assumed most of the smells had to do with his sickness, but she didn't want to try hard to tease out what the smells of normal life were.

"Do you want me to play you some music?"
"Not right now.  Maybe some Clapton later,"
She smiled.
"Clapton always helps"
He didn't smile.

There was some conversation, somewhere in their past, something beautiful about the complex language of notes.  Blues guitars that could weep gently and black curtains in white rooms.  It seemed strange for things to be so quiet now.  Only a hospital monitor to indicate he still had a heartbeat.  Like a metronome.  The days of singing seemed so far away from them at that moment.

 She watched as he curled onto his side in a fetal position, looking into her eyes.  There was no more conversation to be had.  Or music.

His eyes started to water. She couldn't tell if he was crying or if this is what old dying men do.  He reached out to her with a hand made out of blue veins and bone and cupped her cheek.  Her eyes began to water too.  This wouldn't do for a caretaker, she tried to pull away.

"Sit by my side.  Come as close as the air," he whispered in a croak.

It was easier to agree, to crawl into his bed, to have him struggle to sit up and support his frailness with her large breasts, her arms winding around him like a shawl.  Like a cloak of memory, a support, a backbone.  Her soft cheek against his scruffy whiskers, whatever grows beyond the five o'clock shadow of a man whose won't have another shave in his lifetime.

There was so much space outside that circle of their arms.  His drafty farmhouse, all the cracks he never got around to patching. Outside of that, the coldness of the December outside.  And the entire state of Connecticut, all those miles of highways and farmland.  Had they really traveled 500,000 miles?  Maybe more. The world was so big outside them.  And so big inside, too.

They stayed there for minutes, or hours, she couldn't tell.  Just stroking each other.  Looking into her eyes was all he wanted to do, like a lover pushing for sex, for intimacy.  She couldn't deny him, even though it was hard and was breaking her heart. She let him in like a lover, opening up her eyes to him and all they contained.

They cried and then their eyes dried, they seemed to run out of tears, but then it all started up again.  Looking him in the eyes was the hardest thing, but she held on.  Looking, seeing, witnessing, all the words that had gone before were an introduction to this, these moments.  Her eyes explored his face like a caress, all those lines, every mile on the landscape of his face.  But he kept getting her gaze back, he wanted to drink her in through his eyes.  Make love to her in that space beyond their bodies.  It had the same force as foreplay, thrusting, gentle caresses, the ebb and flow between lovers.

She stayed with him until he closed his eyes, tired, not dead.  Just the sweet relief of sleep.

He shifted position and lay his head against her breasts, to hear her heart; she swung her leg gently around to the other side of him.

She tried hard to think of everything and nothing.

Holding a man for the last night of his life.  The next room where they made love for the last time 20 years ago.  The wooden kitchen butcherblock, she noticed the first time she walked in, terrified and intimidated.

The circle of the clock.  The circle of the moon.  The complete cycle of a beep, his heart metronome and how if she closed her eyes, she could feel the sound become something visual and red.  The cold air outside, the col moon, the coldness of getting out of a gig at 2 in the morning, having said their last goodbyes and having to get to the motel on little to no gas.

How her mother used to hold her like this.  Don't think about that.  In the comfort of what they called, "Her Boat".  Her mother, enclosing a small girl on the couch to watch television, to watch the old tv shows, Lawrence Welk and everything else.  His show.  The perfect contentment she felt in that boat.  Sending him off in the same Boat. This man-child she never had.  The children he never had, despite all those times he tried, despite all his genuine kindnesses and moments of beauty.  His heart had called out to her as she was driving by, hers had called out to him.  Everytime was goodbye.   Every hello was a reconciliation.  They never belonged apart.

She looked out the window, thinking how much his lamppost looked like the moon.  And how even that was good enough for her.

From Phil Ochs' Changes