Elvis Aron and I have a standing date. Oh, yes. Once he is done with his southern beauties, through with their pencil skirts, thick black eyeliner and spray-stiff beehive hair, he meets me, barefoot, beside the green water and as we stroll, he places his hand on the small of my back and calls me, Darlin'. And he tells me: It's now or never. Of course, I always give in. After, we don't talk about books or even music—instead I take him by the hand up to the cabin and seat him at the oilcloth covered table. I touch his soft features; I admire his slim waist and black hair, so glossy in the lamplight. I feed him fried bacon and mayo sandwiches on the white bread I am—then I help him lick the drippin's off Momma's best melamine platter.