She asks him as he’s walking through the back door ‘Did you eat yet? Are you hungry?’ They hug like old friends do and she goes over to the coffee maker to brew a fresh pot for him. She’d already cooked some extra bacon in the skillet that morning because she’d heard that he was back in town. She’s been expecting him. Then she sets his place at the kitchen table complete with silverware, a folded cloth napkin and the coffee creamer he likes. On cue he says ‘you don’t have to go to any trouble, I grabbed something on my way over’ – she delivers that look of hers and asks ‘English muffin or whole wheat toast?’ a jar of strawberry jam left over from feeding her family breakfast — sits in a puddle of condensation — he takes a seat — it feels like ages.

His life on the road is a crazy one full of concert halls, bright lights, bus trips and all-night waffle houses – he’s a traveling musician – a vagabond talent who plays his music from town to town. People pay to hear him — suspending their realities for a while with their row F4 seats because he has the heart a poet, a voice of velvet and a Gibson guitar. When he performs the audience sings along with all the ache and understanding – lit from the fire that he sets smoldering in their souls. They believe because he sings their truths. But he can’t see most of them from the stage — the spotlights are too blinding.

When he does get home in between gigs – he’s awake while most sleep — restless and driving the roads at 3am. He prefers mayonnaise sandwiches or whatever he can find — instead of going out to eat. And he’ll always seek out the shelter of her home, her life – and the seeming normalcy of it all – a house with a yard, pets, kids and husband — she’s the sister he never had. Maybe the wife too. And when he comes into her kitchen — no clandestine offerings of hollow intimacy or random hotel room keys can find their way into his pocket.

She fries up some eggs, blots the bacon on a ripped brown paper bag, sits down and pours the coffee. ‘Sorry the over-easy are kind of brown-looking’ she says ‘I burnt the butter.’ She’s learned over time not to make too much fuss over cooking for him — he’s skittish like a stray cat. And he knows something about her too – that she hungers for his stories from the road – and that she’s really a creature of the night like him. She just happens to be domesticated. ‘Tell me a story’ she begs with a smile. His world isn’t real to most people and it gets lost in the translation as glory and glamour. ‘How was the tour? Did you write any new stuff? Meet anyone famous?’ She asks with nonchalance and he’s gentle with her and gives up what he can, what he wants, and what she can understand.

As her kids and husband float in and out of the kitchen — their conversation drifts apart. They talk about the lack of rain, the hot sun. They’ve been resigned for a long time now — knowing that the tenuous intimacy they share will have to wait until the next time he stops in for a meal. Quietly, he wipes the plate clean of egg yolk with a crust of toast, cleans his mustache and looks out the window.