I was in a small club watching Van Morrison sing. He was accompanied by only a guitarist. His performance grew more and more beautiful and soulful. The guitar player was creating percussive bass lines along with his chords, filling out the sound the way a band would.

Later I was driving a car. A. C. was in the passenger seat.

“Are you fucking Van Morrison?” I asked her.

“Yes,” she replied, without hesitation or shame. “About every weekend.”

I considered what this meant in terms of her marriage but didn’t ask anything else.