HE COULD DRIVE WELL WHEN HE KEPT THE SPEED REASONABLE, I HAD to admit. Like so many things, it seemed to be effortless to him. He barely looked at the road and he drove single-handedly, with the other hand resting on my thigh. Sometimes he gazed into the setting sun, sometimes he glanced at me, my face, my hair blowing out the open window, and would smile.
He had turned the radio to an oldies station, and he sang along with a song I'd never heard. He knew every line, like he had heard the song many times before.
"You like fifties music?" I asked, trying to use music to figure out how many decades he had been alive, and use that information to figure out how old he was.
"Music in the fifties was good. Much better than the