He sidled up to her, a cowboy with tight jeans and a Beck’s in each hand, said “Howdy.” And she was hooked.

Her name was Carrie. She told him when he asked. A first. The smile on his face was so genuine that she had to put her hand out to feel the stubble at his dimples. And she realized she’d never needed anything so much in her life.

Thursdays: After her shift at The Smokehouse, back at her ramshackle outhouse of a prefab, his stubble scouring her face clean, his hands (rough from too much work and too many cigarettes but God she wouldn’t have them any other way) would reach around her body and up her shirt before he’d take everything off and stand over her, his bare chest heaving. She’d reach out her hand and he’d be on her in a flash. The whiskey on his breath, his tongue burning hers with the taste of alcohol, cigarette smoke in his hair, flashes of stars, bucking reining in ride ‘em cowboy.

He’d sleep, and she’d rub her hands all over him, trying to commit to her fingertips’ memories the contours of his stomach, the warmth at his back, his hard prickly jaw, the cotton-soft whisps of sunblond hair at his temples. She’d whisper to him, I love you. Carrie loves you. And imagine that the whiskey on his cowboy breath was heaving in and out with the same love in his chest. She’d kiss his sleeping lips and fall asleep on his chest and be up before him the next morning.

Mondays: Mondays were his day off. When she had free time, he had buddies he’d be with, and so so would Carrie. She’d take a bus to town (the old thing about to fall apart) and find her girls at the salon. Carrie would watch and talk, and the owners, old biddies that they were, would let her stay and gossip without paying for anything.

She’d get home with groceries: eggs, cereal, whiskey, beer, cigarettes and tomatoes for salad.

He’d get home late.

She’s always asleep Monday nights.

Tuesdays: were better. Always he’d stay with her as long as he could, pawing at her animal-like, not even asking in words, barely asking in actions, mostly just taking. She loved it. She’d pretend to resist but of course that made him want it more. She’d kiss his temples when he focused elsewhere and loved the taste, like hay and sunshine, that stayed with him. Then they’d drink their beer and talk.

“How did Helen Keller burn her hand?”

“How?”

“She tried to read the waffle iron.”

“How do you torture Helen Keller?”

“Put a plunger in the toilet.”

“No! Oh, that’s awful!”

“Why can’t Helen Keller drive?”

“I don’t know.”

“Because she’s a woman.”

Tuesdays were always better. He’d be drunk and happy and red-faced and she’d find them back in bed before nightfall. He’d fall asleep with a cigarette in his mouth, and she’d take it out and drop it in his Beck’s bottle before falling asleep. When she awoke the next morning, there was always a burnt-down stump back in his mouth, but she never felt him move.

Saturdays: He’d stay up on the tar-paper roof on a lawn-chair, naked as the day he was born, drinks spoiling in the sun as he got darker and darker. She’d try to stay with him, but she always burned if she was out there too long. Neighbors never noticed, or never would say a thing. He’d smoke several packs as she gardened in her little pots. Growing red geraniums. Growing cucumbers and roses.

Her mother would stop by. Never stay long. Never mention the Adonis with the cowboy hat on the roof, just hop back in the pickup truck after some smalltalk, whirling her shawl around her bony bluejeaned body, and sag quietly down in the seat as she sped away in the dust.

He’d come in at night. She’d kiss him while he was still warm and he’d stand above her, bottle in his hand still hot from the sun, hot even running down his throat, and he’d blink it off and she’d lead him to the bed where he’d fall on her and talk about the sun, and fire, and the burning red behind his eyes, and she’d drink it all in, the scorching bitter and the spice of the sweet. And he’d work his hands like thirsty mouths, parched and hot from more than the sun. And she’d feel his stomach sliding on hers and feel whole, not caring about the smell of tar on him, because his hair, the curls of softswirl cotton at his temples, still smelled like hay.

She’d wash the sheets in the morning.

Fridays: they were both exhausted from a week of work. She’d bring him his beer and they’d be next to a fire when it got colder and sleep and sleep and wake and feel hotter and hotter and put out the fire and move to the bed and sleep whisper sleep kiss (is he awake?) kiss whisper touch feel (is he listening) I love you I love you I (is he) awake.

Silence.

Whiskey.

A cigarette.

Wednesdays: Church at six. He’d stay home and she’d go and see her mother and Big Sister and the girls from the beauty shop and they’d talk about love and their shows and how the days were getting shorter and how the nights were getting longer and have you lit your fire yet? Preacher preach, choir sing, crying, talk and gossip, her lipstick looks so trashy, is your flue clean?, tell me what you and tell me what she tell me how you’re

Cars pulling out.

Bells ringing and the radio’s on and there’s a song about love and the rain and then love and fire and then love and the wind and then love and the fields and then love and someone’s horse.

Carrie loves him.

She’d drive to the park, in the quiet dark. Think.

Sit in the swings (how big she’s gotten my stars my world my wonder my word) and think and watch stars if the clouds were down. Shiver as it gets colder. As the nights get longer.

When she got home

(found him in the living room, I can’t take this agitation any more)

(we laughed “What happened to Helen Keller’s dog?” and watered the plants with beer and killed them every one)

(I love you)

When she got home

he’d dropped a cigarette.

Only a stump was there.

(I love you.)

“It was an accident.”

Grocery list: eggs, cereal, whiskey, beer, cigarettes and tomatoes for salad.

Him, hot from the sun in nothing at all, just hot skin, a burnt-down cigarette in his mouth, an empty bottle in his hand.

She was hooked.

Sunday: Church. Hushed tones. Quiet talk (did you hear uh-huh she her man to the ground saw the smoke) and bobbing heads.

Preacher preaches. Choir sings.

She’d listen.

The days were getting colder. The nights were getting colder.

I loved a boy.

Bells tolling. Cars pulling out.

(When I get home…)

Her mother would stop by. Never stay long. Talk. Maybe talk.

She’d drive to the park,

(think)

loved a boy

in the quiet dark.

(A brave idea:)

She’d take the bus.

Old thing. About to fall apart. How old she’d gotten my stars

My world

My wonder

My Word

Preacher preaches. Choir sings.

My God, that stubble.

New Year’s: the bus would rattle.

My God.

He sidled up to her, a cowboy with tight jeans and a Beck’s in each hand, said “Howdy.”

And she was hooked.

And she realized she’d never needed to lose anything so much in her life.