The sign had three forks presenting different directions and I turned left down Addison. Houses on either side, snowpeople, smoking chimneys. I was recovering from pneumonia which had no effect on my use of the accelerator. Gave it some gas, proceeded. My coffee rested sedately on the floor between the seats and as long as I drove gingerly there was no risk of an upheaval. Two sugars, cream. Stains could be found on both the dashboard and the right passenger armrest, forged by previously ill-timed slides. The setting was right for the continuation of motion which was fitting since the van had not stopped moving.

We had picked up an amplifier for an upcoming show as well as six baguettes and three pounds of brie. Solid combination. Crumbs dusted my jacket as I slowly turned the wheel. The specks reminded me of little saplings planted during a June snowstorm in the early eighties, their miniature asymmetrical form basking in my sweater's polar hues. I wiped them on the floor and honked my horn at an audacious raccoon who could have timed his street crossing more cautiously. This was in the winter of 1986 and snow had indeed been falling.

Anderson co-ordinated the pickup ensuring that what had been ordered was actually there. Paint, wax, spark plugs, such things. Her jeans had a feint heart stitched on the right thigh in pale olive green and her necklace ended in three wavy lines (attached together by translucent opal threads). Auburn eyes blinked back at me as I checked to make sure my watch was still working and there it was, tick ticking away. It was 5:30 and we had to be at Rusty's by 6:45 to unload. Things unravelled as scheduled as we quickly sped away.

"Stopping for coffee?"
"Affirmative."
"Where's my wallet."
"Beneath the seat."
"Could have turned left back there."
"Like the scenic route."
"S'pose there's a deadline."

The centre for exchange had a rusted sign out front which read "Steady." The wheels stopped spinning. I stepped into the slush having recently waterproofed my boots.

"Hey Sarah, what's that you've got there?"

She was standing out front by a streetlight.

"Typical spine needle: it glows in the dark."
"Why'd you buy it?"
"Felt like it. It's been kind of breezy."
"Helps."
"Some kind of wonderful."

I had met Sarah at a club. Didn't like going to clubs but found myself at one one evening and she was there, struck up a conversation. Two days later I received an insightful e-mail critiquing the incongruous foils worked into an episode of March and figured something might be there. Her hair fell in wavy curls down to her shoulders and her forehead curiously resembled a quarter moon. She came from Rockford where they mined potash and farmed. Liked the town but wanted a change; probably return from time to time, here and there. Her aura cast this odd sort of phosphorescent glow at dusk that you could catch if you weren't paying attention. Most likely part Jacobian, descended from the Malarmites: corn was very different in the 6th century.

We unloaded the material and walked inside. Preparations were underway. The napkins had snails wearing shades and shells made of jade on them. Cost an extra $35.00. The lighting was dull in order to save some juice and the help responded crepuscularly. We sat at a table near the bar and ordered three manhattans as was the style at that time. The sweet vermouth and rye layered my taste buds with delicate, moist, maturity as we listened to the upcoming performance's constructive rhythm. I drifted off.