Only in cars did they have passion. Road trips to Carmel, the local store, cross-country, were filled with the passion and "bliss" of the drive. It was never a peaceful journey. She would demand "stop tailgating, stop speeding," stomping her feet on the imaginary brake, stiffening in her seat, huffing and puffing and clutching the door handle for security.

Odd, but for Bill, whenever these “events” would occur he felt a passion like none other. His hands would sweat, his knees tighten with a certain schoolboy sensitivity. Such a great feeling he had for the hounding, forceful directives of his wife, his first wife, with whom he had shared so much, yet couldn't share verbally half the feelings and emotions from within. He was a confused and wanting soul. But wanting what? To pull over and demand restitution? On his terms? On hers? Or, perhaps, in its simplicity, to get even in a most base, vile way?

On this clear day in August, they were on one of the state's most perfectly constructed, well-paved, civilized pieces of infrastructure—state highway 23, rarely traveled, yet there for the driving pleasure. The time had come. It was 4:05 p.m. The tall pines still reflected the sun brightly, as the air at that altitude allowed an almost eerie clarity to any image. A smile was on his face, and she welcomed it.

“Get a bite to eat?” he asked.

“Let's run up to that chicken and ribs place you like so much. You know the one that also makes the best fried egg sandwiches this side of the Colorado river,” she replied.

Bill loved that place alongside highway 4, with the rickety bridges lining the roads and the one way streets meandering alongside the low-income housing. The crisp, clear air seemed to breeze them over the hill straight for the diner.

It was near about closing time when they sauntered in, but the Korean owner remembered them from trips past and jollied them up to their favorite table. She ordered the usual egg concoction, but today felt like a chicken dinner would go down well, too. Bill felt it was strange her all-of-a-sudden chicken craving, as she had been so recently committed to this vegetarian kick. But what the hell, it was the best food this side of the Colorado.

No one could have anticipated what was to happen next. And surely Bill was not figuring on spending the rest of his day this way. He had just been peppered with the “drill” coming over in the car and was glad that it was not a prolonged ordeal this time. He welcomed the lunch break and the cheap, good food.

She seemed to inhale her platter, and just as the last bite of greasy-boned chicken went down her gullet, she looked up with this expression of fear and dread—the bone had lodged completely in her throat and her breath was becoming obstructed. No wheeze to signify patency, just blockage. Bill gave her a heimlich but the best chicken bone this side of the Colorado river wouldn't budge.

STAY TUNED FOR CHAPTER 2.