The lover’s song hoped to chronical the sad, continuing struggle to find someone who could make it all seem right. In the pictures all the men looked like thumbs, big and vacant, hats at a jaunty tilt. Rich girls with backyard fences, angels coupled with sailors and airmen. Dreams watch each other warily, not wanting to draw first. Soft luxuriant curs loll in the faded light. Girls and drivers tricked out to get liquor and better clothes. Half gallons of sweet wine, six packs of beer and jeans that rode low. Jump humped, born to suffer, made to undress in the wilderness.
He threw on the businessman’s Stetson that belonged to his grandfather, a renown liar, and sang:
“I will never treat you mean,
Never start no kind of scene
I will tell you every place and every person I’ve been
I will always be true,
Never go sneaking out on you…”
It was easier to lie when he sang. But he wouldn’t let it bother him because he knew beyond doubt that she would kill him.