The band was quirky. Strange time signatures. A trio of bearded men. I caught the eye of the drummer, having admired the soft hills of his biceps as his naked arms (tank top) beat the drums into submission. I wanted to cup those hills like I cupped the little head of my cat when I was a kid. That’s not all I wanted to cup.

1975. We danced in the back of the bar. He was smallish, with a cowboy hat, in town from Oregon only briefly. He was a…