The people who sat at home that night didn't know they were supposed to want it. I did, though, and so I went. The Firebird took us quickly; it was a better machine than all the others.

We entered the pub and were immediately greeted with Mellencamp, working class and painfully loud. I was happy that the chords bore familiarity, even if the place didn't. The lead singer was middle-aged, the pretty blonde with the sequined top less so. I didn't like her voice at first, but she smiled at me as I murmured the lyrics and her appeal grew. The drummer was handsome with a wry grin, playing everything I loved.

It was a wheat beer and I sipped it, cold and bitter cherry with the requisite maraschino resting at the bottom. My friend had something lighter, surprising me with his choice but not with his thoughtful way of drinking. I'd been getting heavier, but my low iron levels were an excuse to order beef nachos. There was too much food, as usual. It made me frown. I sang love songs along with the band, but no man materialized in my mind as I did this.

I saw two men handcuffed together, one of them in sunglasses despite the darkness. They joined a silver-haired couple in dancing to a Led Zeppelin cover. The geezers' loyalty to one another made me sad that I had not experienced the same. My tip was generous and I wondered if I'd be able to handle the rigors of bar employment, waiting on boors and gentlemen alike.

When we left, it was cold. I shivered and saw that my dress and hair were saturated with nicotine, erasing any perfume that had fought to linger on. Woodward had a rare calm that evening, but I looked anyway at St. John's and thought of muscle cars' roars and their tires smoking on the pavement.

The trees were in blossom. Hot August was on its way, but it couldn't come soon enough. Not for me.