Buffalo, June 1975
I woke up to a beautiful, fully opened summer morning in an unfamiliar room, in space marked off for someone else. Sweet air on a slight breeze ruffled sheer white curtains under a window. Car sounds and random voices floated on the wind. Night had gone and, with it, even those few guideposts I’d half-assedly noticed between the time Darlene squeezed me in the door, her full breasts rolling freely beneath her nightgown, and the precipice where, not very much later, sleep swarmed around us. I scrambled to retain some of the recognizable things that had been with me in sleep, replaced by a creeping sadness as they receded into the dark, blue, unreachable background.