Jerry Westerley felt like an old man.
But how could he be an old man? He remembered so clearly — so intimately, so… so piercingly — everything about the first time he’d attended one of this performer’s concerts: the slap and squeak of expert fingers on an acoustic guitar, the soft crisp voice and just a half mile from the railroad track, the colored lights, the intimate in-the-round seating, the aroma of the blue smoke filling the air, and most of all the gleam in the eyes of the woman he’d been seeing then.
Things could hardly have changed that much in 40 years, could they…?