Imagine 

My phone battery is at 2% because I’ve been listening to podcasts about UFOs all day. Just before it dies, I manage to call a tow truck. The tow truck driver says there are no real mechanic shops in the area, but that he has a “kind of shop” at his place and can fix the car there.

I look around at the stark plains of rural Wyoming. I don’t see a better option. I consider that I might not make it to the concert in Denver. I agree to go with him.

We turn off the highway onto a gravel road winding through the sage brush plains. I notice seven antelopes standing idly, vigilantly, in a field.

We pull into a small enclave of 20 or 25 scattered mobile homes. I see several thin dogs but no people.

The tow truck driver leaves my car in the dirt driveway next to his mobile home, says, “wait out here,” and goes inside. I intuit that I will never see him again.

I stand in the driveway. I shuffle in small circles in the dirt. I wave my arms up and down. I squat on my haunches. I watch a crow in a tree for what feels like an hour.

The driver’s son comes out of the mobile home. He says the car can be fixed.

Several neighbors, all wearing jeans, materialize. I tell them my car is not working. 

“You came to the right place,” says the wrinkliest neighbor, “we know cars.” I feel relieved.

They begin looking at the car. They don’t pop the hood or look underneath it, as I had expected. Instead, they search the back seats and find some marbles. I feel surprised; I don’t recognize the marbles; I’ve never, to my knowledge, had marbles. They set the marbles on a plywood table and begin cleaning them.

I feel impatient. I ask them when they are going to fix the car.

“Yep, we’ll fix it,” one says, polishing a marble in her hands with a cloth.

“I think it might be a problem with the belt,” I offer, only vaguely aware of what a belt is or whether it can cause problems.

“No, it’s not that,” she says.

I wonder how she knows that without looking at the engine or even lifting up the hood.

“Since we’re fixing your car, how about you go babysit the kids?” says one of the neighbors.

“Sure, I like kids,” I say truthfully, feeling grateful to be of use.

“That trailer right there,” says the neighbor, pointing at a lime green mobile home. “Just let yourself in.”

I go inside. There are no kids – just a grandma. Sitting in a recliner. Wearing a pink fleece bath robe and white fleece slippers.

“Sit down,” says the grandma, so I sit on the couch, which is squishy and the only available seating. She looks at me for a few minutes.

“It’s nice, isn’t it? Driving around the country, seeing new places, friends, lovers…”

“I like it,” I say.

“I used to travel a lot.”

“Where’d you go?”

“All over. Hollywood, Japan, the Amazon, the Moon, back in time, you name it.”

“Wow,” I say, feeling impressed. “What were some of your favorite places?”

“I liked them all for different reasons. What I really loved about travel was the people.”

“I feel similarly. Who were some memorable people?”

She smiles and tilts her head back. The recliner swallows more of her small body.

“When I was young, maybe around your age, I met an Estonian man when I was summering on the coast of Spain. His name was Jaan. He called me Daisy. We spent two magical, unforgettable weeks together. I’ve never had a lover like him, before or after. I mean, can you imagine?”

“No, not really.”

“Try.”

“Okay.” I vacantly, abstractedly think about Estonia, beaches, and sex. I want to be empathetic.

“I could see that being … special,” I offer, feeling self-conscious. 

“No, really try to imagine it,” she says, looking at me intensely.

“Oh… alright.”

I settle into the couch and close my eyes.

I imagine the first time they saw each other: laying on the beach, their sweaty, oily, tanned bodies salty from the ocean and hot from the sun.

They flirted in broken English and Spanish. Jaan remarked that the sun was going down and suggested they go to a nearby bar. They walked through lamplit cobblestone streets, allowing their hands and shoulders to lightly, almost imperceptibly, touch, feeling the tingly exhilaration of lust. They strolled, tipsily, under the stars, back to her rented flat. They caressed each other for hours in the glow of candlelight; nibbling, licking, gasping. They fell asleep in the pale dawn light.

Two weeks later they cried silently at the train station and exchanged one last desperate goodbye kiss.

Daisy went back to Minnesota and worked in a government office, filing papers in the space between fluorescent lights and gray carpet soaked with cleaning fluid.

Jaan moved doors and window panes around snowy Estonian construction sites, taking breaks to wrap his hands around mugs of hot coffee to fend off frostbite and boredom.

Daisy left her job and drove west. At a bar in Wyoming, she met a farmhand who spun her around the dance floor and helped her forget about Estonia and Minnesota. She found a mobile home that would fit 3 kids; she had 5. The farmhand became a farmer and grew corn in a nearby field until his leg was crushed by a tractor and he died of blood loss.

Jaan went on dates with a Lithuanian woman who worked with his sister at the glove factory. They grew close and took care of each other. He built a small house for his glove-making wife and glove-wearing children. He returned to the Spanish coast each summer with his family, hoping to see Daisy again but knowing and also hoping he wouldn’t. He and his glove-making wife drifted apart and amicably separated.

I continue imagining. I notice the grandma breathing, the silence of the couch. Hours pass. Decades pass. Daisy and Jaan reconnect, implausibly and inevitably, through the internet. They make a plan.

Daisy nervously packs a bag. She asks me to come with her. We leave the little lime green mobile home, catch a ride to Laramie, a bus to Denver, and board a plane. Jaan packs his suitcase and walks to the Estonian train station.

We meet Jaan in Spain at the same beach. The town has changed, but they find another beachside hotel and rent a room for two weeks. The first night, they hold each other and weep. Sadness and regret over lost decades. Gratitude and joy they are finally together.

We travel to a mountain villa in northern Spain. Daisy and Jaan take slow walks through the sleepy village, drink wine, and make love in the evenings. He becomes increasingly frail. She gradually loses her memory and her appetite. On a warm autumn evening, they watch their final sunset together. They lie down next to each other, filled with ineffable peace. She closes her eyes for the last time.

I open my eyes.

It is dark. I go outside. Nobody outside. I start my car and drive toward Denver.

This story was originally published in The Quarter(ly).