August 1964 was brutal. I'd say I don't know why it sticks out in my memory, but that'd be a lie. My cousin Phillip, bird-brained kid that he was, went and got himself shot over in Vietnam. 17 years old and eager enough to leave home to lie about his age. I was in Richmond helping the cigarette people update their phone system. It was a mess, some glorified closet full of girls at switchboards barely able to see from all the smoke. My first recommendation was "ventilation". I never smoked myself (a topic I skirted during that entire gig) and I've always hated to see a pretty girl puffing away. Some folks think it's alluring, but me, I think it takes away some of the magic. I guess it's because you already know how she's gonna smell. That's why the girl at the hotel bar that last rainy Thursday night caught my eye. It was a room full of flaming tobacco but she hadn't lit up all night. After an hour of nursing this and that, I drank my last ounce of courage, picked up my suitcase and grabbed the seat next to her.

"You don't look like you're from around here," I told her. It was the truth. There was something exotic about her but I couldn't quite place it. Jet black hair, more black than you usually see but not dyed black like some girls do. Her eyes were sharp and sky blue, or maybe darker, it was hard to tell. Her skin tone was a bit on the off-white side, though sometimes it looked almost gray, at least for a second or two.

"That's hardly an astute observation in a hotel," she said. I felt like a real dummy but I did my best to recover.

"You here on business? I am. I'm always on business."

She sipped her glass of wine.

"After a fashion," she said with a little smirk, "Just a light contract, though."

"Oh? What is it you do?" I asked. She didn't answer. The rain really started coming down. She finished her wine, dabbed her lips with a bar napkin and extended her hand to me.

"I'm Ameonna," she said, "You can call me Amy, if you like."

I shook her hand and told her I was charmed. I'd been around enough to know that I really had been. Quite literally, actually. Something soft and classic started playing on the jukebox, I don't remember exactly what.

"Norman. Nice to meet you, Amy. If you don't mind me saying so, your hands are quite cold."

She smiled an honest-to-whatever's-watching smile and said, "Probably a bit of Oregon calling. I've got business there in December."

"I've been to Oregon, a few times. The weather's not too bad, especially west of the mountains," and then I turned to the barkeep, "Ehm, another one. And another... Amy, what are you drinking?.. wine..."

"Plum wine."

"Yes, plum wine for the lady."

And the night went like that for quite a long while. I'd ask a question, Amy'd maybe answer it and eventually we'd order another round. She kept asking me about dead relatives, though. She was especially interested in my uncle Harvey, a farmer who had a hell of a time in the dust bowl during the Depression. She swore she knew a Harvey from Oklahoma but I told her he had to have kicked it before she was even born. Girl didn't look a day over 25, but what do I know? And the rain. The rain just kept on coming. Eventually Amy hopped off her bar stool and headed for the door. When I realized she was going outside I jumped up and grabbed my umbrella.

"Hey! What are you doing? You'll get soaked!"

She was already drenched when I got out to her and when I put my umbrella over her head she just walked out from under it. She held her hand out and caught some rain, licking it out of her palm and smiling.

"The weather in Oregon is unpredictable, Norman. The weather is unpredictable everywhere. Thanks for the drink."

And with that she walked off into the hard, blinding rain. It stopped by sunrise and all there was in the sky were little clouds, plum-colored in front of the sun.