“Well. I sung at the Tupelo Mid-South Fair and Dairy Show in nineteen seventy-six. Had a three-piece band. That’s where I met my husband.”

“You’re divorced,” I say.

“Huh. Wish I was.”

Here’s the one thing I don’t need: to get hooked up with somebody who has more problems than I do. I’m already on probation. I don’t need to get hooked up with somebody who will sit here all night telling me how her husband fucked her over. But she has some really nice, truly wonderful breasts. It won’t hurt to sit here and talk to her for a while. Maybe she’s as lonely as I am.

“What? Are you separated?” I say.

“Yeah.”

“How long?”

“About two weeks. Listen. I don’t give a shit what he does. He’s a sorry son of a bitch. I don’t care if I don’t never see him again.”

“You’re just out to have a good time.”

“Damn right.”

I tell her I think we can have one.

By ten we’re out on the parking lot in her new Lincoln (surprise) and she’s braced up against the driver’s door. I have her sweater and bra all pushed up above her breasts and I’m moaning and kissing and trying to get her pants down. We’re half hidden in the shadow of the building, but the neon lights are shining on the hood and part of the front seat. People in certain areas of the parking lot can see what we’re doing. I don’t care; I’m hot. Her nipples have been in and out of my mouth and she’s halfway or halfheartedly trying to fight me off. She smells of talcum powder and light sweat. We’ve been kissing for ten minutes, but she doesn’t seem to be excited. I know already, deep down, that something is wrong. She keeps looking out over the parking lot.

“Oh baby,” I moan. I kiss the side of her neck and taste makeup on my tongue, slightly bitter. Patooey. “Let’s do it,” I say.

“Not here,” she says. She pushes out from under me and takes both hands and tugs her bra and sweater back into place. I look at her for a moment and turn away. Not here. That might mean maybe somewhere else.

“Oh we’ll do it,” she says. Sure. “We just can’t right now.”

She rubs the side of my face. “My husband might be around here.”

“Your husband?” I say. What’s this? “I thought you said you weren’t worried about him.” It’s always like this. They all have some problem they have to lay on you before they’ll give it to you, and even then sometimes they won’t give it to you. “What? You think he might come around here?”