Stevie Ray Vaughn slammed out blues that were nearly as hot as the early afternoon. The whole car vibrated with windows rolled up in an attempt to protect righteous blues and cold air from escaping into the heat and into unappreciative ears. He found it hard to imagine anyone not appreciating Stevie Ray – at any volume. The smell of deep fried onion rings was too much. He stopped the car in the unoccupied middle of a huge parking lot and began to feed. There’s nothing like a high carb lunch to prep a person for a mid-afternoon slump in productivity. He’d already decided the scrumptious rings and burger were worth the valiant attempts he’d have to make to fend off a carb-induced coma two hours later. That’s when he noticed something that stirred a distant memory.

There was a tan minivan parked all by itself across the lot in the far corner. A little black sports car, possibly a Porsche, or one of those two-seater BMWs pulled up on the near side away from the highway. The man and woman inside kissed once, twice, then keeping count became very difficult. They remained locked in a kiss, one of those obvious we’re-not-married-we’re-just-having-an-affair-and-just-spent-all-morning-fucking-our-brains-out kind of kisses. Finally, and reluctantly, she stepped out of the roadster, fumbled for her keys and stepped back into her soccer-mom persona. He drove off, tires chirping slightly as he popped the clutch to engage first gear. She sat there for a couple of minutes with both hands on the wheel, staring out across the parking lot, preparing for re-entry to a different reality. After a short time, she drove off 180 degrees from the direction in which he left – symbolic in more than one way. She repeated his departure routine by looking around, scanning the parking to look for familiar cars and, heaven-forbid, familiar faces. Both were flying under the radar.

Once upon a time, he’d been in those shoes – their shoes – fucking in stealth mode. It was great sex; sex that came to him as a gift long after he’d decided there’d probably be no more sex in his life. Many doors opened; doors to a sexuality that had been part of his youth, and many doors that had never considered, much less opened. The sex was different – insulating – addictive. Their world consisted of hotel rooms, room service, and extra towels. Many a candle gave its light to something that burned so much hotter than fire. Inhibitions were always checked at the door, and justifications found validated in the eyes of the other. Theirs was a sexual collision amplified by death of two marriages many years previous to their predestined burial in divorce proceedings. Neither of them played a factor in their respective ultimate outcomes, but both served to awaken the fortitude and trust and re-establishment of Self and Worth that was needed to survive. 

He wondered where those two people were in the continuum of their relationship. The intensity of their final kiss of the morning’s encounter indicated that they and their lust were in full stride. Would they eventually wind up together, rising above the shards of one or more broken marriages? Or would one of them, or maybe both of them get caught and have to deal with the acid burn of betrayal up close and personal? Chances were they were progressing to that point where both felt bulletproof. Sex was enough to keep reality at bay. Sex was the driving force. They may even be at that blissful point where truly nothing else mattered and nothing outside of who they were together figured into what should.

Call it time’s fault, or maybe blame it on the eventuality both would choose to ignore, but sex under the radar would not be enough to sustain them. They’d tire of hiding in darkened hotels. They’d tire of being unable to share a meal in public. They’d tire of all the heart-stopping episodes of checking voicemail to see if either of them were being tracked. These things would slowly start to peel away the thin veneer that protected them from the rest of the world. There’d be a search for more – a need for more. Sex alone would not be able to heal the pain of a deeper need. No invention, no deviation from the norm could add enough excitement or momentum to their attempted escape from their lives to stave off building hunger for something else. Even confessions of love everlasting would not be enough to endure the crush of reality. He hoped they weren’t there yet. He wished they could skip that part. He wished he could intervene and stop the inevitable, but knew there was no going back for them. 

Stevie Ray delivered a riff that’d make any bluesman cry for his mama. Lunch was now a wad of grease-stained paper and the residual aroma of some better-than-average onion rings filled his sense of smell. Raspy vocals spoke about “not goin’ ‘n fallin’ in love again”. Funny how the best songs Stevie wrote spoke of love and pain at the same time. Fading memories of another lifetime washed away with another pull off the straw in his soda. Momentary memories of his own stint with simultaneous love and pain were gone when track five finished. He looked at his watch and smiled. In less than four hours he’d be kissing the love of his life like they were somewhere under the radar having the affair of their lives.