And then something extraordinary happened. I’d barely played the last note of that song when I heard a quiet tap on the door; a second later, October walked in with Diego at her side. She had two beer bottles in her hand and a woolly lavender blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

My heart stopped and then raced.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey.” She handed me a beer. “I saw the light on. Thought I’d come over and listen to you play for a while.”

She curled up on the couch, across from the chair where I was, and drew her knees into her chest. Diego settled on the cool concrete floor by the door and could have been mistaken for a shag rug.

I opened the beer and took a couple of long drinks. October sipped at hers. I was staring at her, and she was looking around the room at everything but me. We didn’t speak, and it was uncomfortable, but uncomfortable in a way that borders on exciting, like when two people feel too much when they’re alone together, and for one reason or another can’t show it or tell it.

Then I realized I could tell her a lot; I just had to start strumming.

“Any requests?”

“Sad songs,” she said. “Only sad songs.”

I took another drink of my beer and then played “Slip Slidin’ Away” because that song is about missed chances, regret, and fear, and because the closer I got to October, the more I felt like I was sliding in the opposite direction. Moreover, whether I’m listening to that song or playing it, I find myself wondering how any of us make it through the peaks and valleys of our lives with any grace and hope at all.

In the middle of the song, October set her beer on the floor, stretched out on the couch, stuffed a pillow under her head, and lay down. Then she closed her eyes and hummed along to the music.

I played a couple of Leonard Cohen songs, one of which I could’ve written about October if I were as cool and poetic as Leonard. And then I noodled around, making stuff up as I went along, and she fell asleep.

She was on her side, hands together in front of her chest as if she were holding a baby bird in her palms. I watched her as I strummed soft chords and plucked at sweet lullaby notes with my fingers, and when I finally got tired and put the guitar away, I thought she’d wake up, but she didn’t. Then I remembered she’d once slept through a Bruce Springsteen concert.

She looked comfortable, and I saw no reason to rouse her. I pulled up the blanket to cover her shoulders, shut off all the lights except for the small one near the door, stepped carefully around Diego, and walked out.