Storied Truth

It's 1981, and I'm on a quest, literary-like.

573 solo sedan miles, the promised rendez-vous before I move to New York. Without him.

Peril pervades -- broken car, lost driver's license.

Then ... the cliff-edged snake, mountain parkway engulfed in heavy fog. I slow, gulp Tab, fantasize my fate:

Dead at 21, one trail clue -- 4:42 p.m., Ed's Market, soda.

But I live.

Shaken, I rebuff his first hungry kiss, half Granny-up -- settle, sip beer, cross-stitch.

Yes. Gnomes. No symbolism.

The lesson? My needs sometimes trump his wants, our love.