Infinity Takes

It was her year of celibacy, mine of work. She was an anything-but-country type with an RN license and best friend from Georgia. Moved into the apartment right behind mine. Dropped off a plate of millionaire’s shortbread and a note. Hot-girl handwriting, purple ink.

Her license plate read New York, and she drove the same model Subaru as my soon-to-be ex. She brought her fungi collection, Amazon Prime subscription, and more than one idea about the South.

To her, anywhere below Pennsylvania was a gamble. Tennessee? Hicks and non-readers, slow talkers, and a drought of gay people. Plus, those cannabis-scared Christians dress like it’s 2014. And country music? That sells beer to jocks.

Like my songwriting partner, Jackson, she was a Virgo. Creative, cerebral, curious. Down for a laugh, but stubborn and passionate. To win an argument, you better speak fast and full of facts.

After the three of us hung out, she said, “Jackson and I have more similar taste in music than you.”

One night, as the two of us rode through my old neighborhood, my brain reached for songs to show her the light. If one could win her over, it would be Kenny Chesney’s “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy”. One of the first country records to ever wiggle my eardrums.

Did it work?

Not really. But she saw the appeal.

Anyway, that’s the image that came to mind when Jackson and I were writing. We were out on the front porch looking for UFOs, and I wondered, “Is it love or the best sex I’ve ever had?” A Starlink flew by. Or a shooting star?

Either way, it was cause for a wish.