Dear Wigleaf,

I really did meet a caveman. I did not fall in love with him. He wore a cowboy hat, and boots that looked like they'd seen a saddle. I notice things like that. It's a game I play with myself—who in this room is a fellow horse person? Often I can tell by the boots. Embellished? Not for the saddle. Fancy? Not for the barnyard. I couldn't tell with him.

I don't recall what we talked about. I think probably I bought him a beer. If I remember, he looked like he could use one. I'm pretty sure he bought me one back, which I didn't expect. Not that he looked destitute, necessarily. Just like he needed to be careful. I didn't buy him another—I worried he'd feel obligated, and together we'd drink him dry.

Another guy at the bar got up to go and offered the caveman a ride. That's when I knew he wasn't a cowboy, but for real a caveman. The guy offering the ride confirmed with him that, yes, he was still living in a cave in the bluffs, and yes, that's where he wanted to be driven.

He laughed at my expression and said, "It's a nice cave."

Probably it was.

Wishing for you all the best things,
Epiphany