We were young and our happiness dazzled us with its strength. But there was

also a terrible betrayal that lay within me like a Merle Haggard song at a

French restaurant. [...]

I could not tell the girl about the woman of the tollway, of her milk

white BMW and her Jordache smile. There had been a fight. I had punched her

boyfriend, who fought the mechanical bulls. Everyone told him, "You ride the

bull, senor. You do not fight it." But he was lean and tough like a bad

rib-eye and he fought the bull. And then he fought me. And when we finished

there were no winners, just men doing what men must do. [...]

"Stop the car," the girl said.

There was a look of terrible sadness in her eyes. She knew about the

woman of the tollway. I knew not how. I started to speak, but she raised an

arm and spoke with a quiet and peace I will never forget.

"I do not ask for whom's the tollway belle," she said, "the tollway

belle's for thee."

The next morning our youth was a memory, and our happiness was a lie.

Life is like a bad margarita with good tequila, I thought as I poured whiskey

onto my granola and faced a new day.

-- Peter Applebome, International Imitation Hemingway

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