‘Sir?’ That voice again. This time louder. The girl from the bar, hunched on a moped, shadowing him on the road. He stopped. ‘What are you doin... out here?’ The buzzing stopped. She rested a foot down. ‘Would you like a lift? I have a spare helmet.’ He looked her over. A coat covered her torso, but a short skirt bared her already-soaked legs, running with water. ‘Aren’t you a bit underdressed for this weather?’ ‘I w-wanted to catch you. Please, get on.’ He wanted to say no. But she had gone to. That first experience isn’t necessarily an omen of the future.I was a good student in math and science. Rhonda was an artist. She was, in fact, a very good artist and it was her skill at design and art that kept her active in everything from decorating for the prom to editing the school newspaper. I loved to look at what she painted, even though I couldn’t tell her that the colors she described to me as she painted were no more real to me than the numbers in the national debt. There were a lot. More

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