Ani'd look at me over the tops of her Lennons, cigarette in her lips, hair wildly uncombed. She'd look incredulous most of the time, disbelieving that I could be so very, disbelieving that she could love it so much. When she laughed, her nose scrunched and ashes fell to her chest, waiting there for my coy pointed glance. She drove my stickshift; at the top of the hill, I tied a thrift-store scarf, orange and aqua, over her hazelgreen eyes. Sancho! we said, and cracked each other up. In the Cincinnati sun of the moment, we were living the dream.