One of the times Mike and I broke up, I got rid of a lot of pictures-- like a teenager in love who "hates" her ex--so I only have a few to go with the story of the best of times.

He wasn't the first man in my life, but he was the last.  We had two chapters, several years apart, the second when I was 65. Both chapters had bumpy endings. But at this point in my life, I mostly remember the dance of the good times. (He's such a good dancer he made me feel like I was--which I'm not)

I remember that night in Arkansas pulling out a cigarette and smoking it.  He didn't smoke and I rarely saw him drink, but it was a test: I didn't want to fall in love with a man I couldn't be my whole self with so I wanted to lay it all out.  But Mike's mantra was "No rules, Baby."

We rode on his Harley and in his white truck, all over the place.  If I saw something I wanted to photograph, he'd do a U-Turn before I could get the words out.  He was, I gotta say, my favorite  boyfriend ever.  

This is one of my favorite photos of Mike--in Chapter One, about 12 years ago.  He never saw a dog he didn't pet.  This was one he encountered somewhere in Mississippi as we were driving from Texas to Georgia, or vice versa.  He didn't get down in a squat and talk doggie talk; it was more natural than that.  He saw a dog, any dog, and he reached out.

This is a photo he took of me as we were saying good-bye the first time. (I was heading to Cape Cod, he back home to Georgia.)  Me in my first Mini Cooper, still in my fifties--how young we were, how happy, how free!