The Bridges of Madison County
Italy to Iowa, 1965 It had been ages since I last heard a voice that wasn’t my own. Before you, it was only the creaking of the splintered floorboards of the veranda, the cries of the cicadas at noon. I cannot recall much of what happened after I heard your truck rattling into my driveway, asking me for directions to the Bridge. But I remember leaning against the fence, picking up my shoes, telling you I’d take you there. In the unforgiving Iowa heat, I shuffled into your passenger seat, and my skin stuck with sweat to the worn dark leather seat of your Chevy. I cupped the rushing wind with my hand out of the window as we listened to it drowning Dinah Washington’s voice on the radio. You raised your hand off the steering wheel to retrieve your cigarettes from the glove box, accidentally brushing against my leg. You were sorry. I wasn’t. We huddled quickly around your lighter to contain our new flame. You fixed your eyes onto the road, then back on to me. I forgot how good it...