It's a nice evening. The moon is out. I think we're riding our bikes side by side; we have gone on such rides before. There is a blanket, the romantic spot we know by the Mississippi, moonlight. Suddenly you turn to me, frightened, doubting—and I discover that I am driving a car. In pain you grab the steering wheel and we careen out of control; I know that a car hit you when you were young, crushed your spirit. Suddenly I realize that you fear me reaching out to you, pulling you under the wheel, like that other driver did. Perhaps you think I am a serial murderer, killing girls and women along the road. And I wonder, how did I get in this car? When did I turn on the ignition? How did I become this nightmare to you? Your scars speak out. And I see my hand putting the key in one night. And turning it another. And easing the brake up a third. And tonight, tonight I push down the accelerator. All along, I just want to ride my bike next to you. And I wonder, why have I become the driver of this car? Why does this car resemble the car that other man drove over you, crushing you beneath his wheels? And I hear in your words my finger prints all over it, my signature on the title, my credit card filling it with gas. And I can't stand that I see myself putting the key in the ignition, turning it, letting up the break, pushing down the pedal--even though I know that I did not drive that car—even though I am not driving this car…even though I did not intend to drive this one. And this is too much to bear, and it hurts because I was, after all, just riding a bicycle next to you on a moonlit evening on the way to a romantic spot by the river. And it doesn't matter that this has nothing to do with me, or that it is an ephemeral dream, or that next time I should tell you I'm on a bike so you won't see a car. Because, after all, I just wanted to spread a blanket by the river and lay down in your embrace under the moon, and all of that slipped away on the greasy pavement, the loss beyond compensation, beyond recovery. And you insist on the car, me driving—that this reality, not a nightmare. So I pedal furiously up hill, away from the big muddy, and winded, wish that we would wake up by the river in each others arms, shake off the dust of an afternoon's lazy loving, and wave as a rower skimming water pauses his pulsing oars to give us a thumbs up.