Old man, old dog, old truck bounce along a narrow gravel road. Every Saturday night after supper, the man changes to a clean, pearl-snap shirt, grabs his hat—not the battered gray felt but his white Resistol—calls the dog, and together they head out. Yet this isn’t a night on the town. Before she passed on, Flora had looked forward to Saturday evenings when they’d stock up on groceries, visit with other ranch families, and maybe stop at the café for a drink, a chat, and a spin around the dance floor. And he never begrudged her.

             Turning down parallel grooves worn into wild grass, he slows the truck, stopping just outside a wire gate. The man steps down, taking care with his bum knee as the dog leaps out. He unlatches the gate and the dog bounds through. Securing the hasp against wandering cattle, the man listens as a few birds chirp goodnight.

Without hesitation they enter the quietness of the place, the dog making himself at home and the man easing himself onto a familiar chunk of granite not far from an ancient cedar. As wind rattles drying grasses, he removes his hat, murmuring as if sharing a secret. There, under a silver moon, he pulls a scarred flask from his back pocket and takes a draw. His words now distinct, he recounts all that’s happened during the week. Another pull, a soft laugh, his monologue continuing until he leans over, gnarled fingers smoothing the sunken sod. 

Pushing himself upright, he retrieves his hat, mutters for the dog, and makes his way around other timeworn stones. At the truck, the old man turns and checks that he’s secured the gate. Heading back along the grassy track, he caresses the dog’s matted scruff. No one had ever known he’d loved Marie, their secret guarded. But now, after all these years, he’s spending Saturday nights with her—the sweetheart he’d lost long ago.