He was a loner. A drifter. A guy from the wrong side of the tracks.
She was cheap. Easy. But she could sing like a bird.
He bought her a guitar and some blue jeans that would make her mother blush.
They stopped at a truck stop on the way to Nashville. He went inside for burgers. She slid over to check her cherry red lipstick in the mirror.
She closed her eyes.
Suddenly, they are sixteen years down the road. They never made it to Nashville. He’d pawned the guitar.
She still sings like a bird, but he never listens.