In the front seat next to him he had left Virginia Wolf’s “To The Lighthouse”.
The purple colour of the facinating story transcended the sunset.
He was somewhere west of Laramie. He took the Buick off the road and parked. Turned on the radio and rested his head on the back of the front seat.
A warm wind came in from the south sweeping through his hair. For a short while he forgot the joy and beauty of her changing face and her soft whispering leading them into the cobolt night.