When Connie-Jean was asked to travel to Denver in order to attend training on a new punch-card system for the DMV office, she was reluctant to go. She’d barely ever left Fort Stockton, much less the state of Texas. 

But, being the only female in the office, she felt a pressure to perform. Besides, a week away from Carl-Dean, her abusive husband was too good to pass up, especially at the expense of the Pecos county taxpayers. Normally, the only time she got away from Carl-Dean was when she’d go bird-watching out in the flat bush area west of town. Carl-Dean hated the outdoors. The cooler weather of Denver would also be a welcome respite from the summer heat of Texas.

She left on a Friday, taking the Lone Star Flyer all the way to Colorado. The scenery relaxed her, as did the seemingly endless glasses of chilled Pinot Grigio served by the porter in the Club Car. By the time the train pulled into Union Station in the Mile High City, she felt like a different woman. The weekend of wine, the altitude, and the sheer size of the city made her head spin. Nothing, however, like was spinning the following day in class when the instructor, Guy Goodnight, made almost constant eye contact with her during class and asked her out for drinks after the lecture.

The words “of course” came out of her lips almost as fast as Guy’s new black Mercury Sun Valley came out of the parking garage after class. Guy couldn’t keep his eyes off Connie-Jean. Connie-Jean couldn’t keep her eyes off the Bittersweet and Black interior of the magnificent Monterey. 

Drinks quickly turned into a drive up into the mountains where they could watch the sun set through the plexiglass roof of the Mercury coupe. The sun dropped over the mountaintops almost as quickly as Connie-Jean’s inhibitions. The following four days were and endless string of short classes, long drives at high altitude up to remote ghost towns and assault with a friendly weapon.

When Guy drove her to Union Station Friday night for the return trip to Fort Stockton he parked at the very back of the lot in order to provide one last lesson in card punching before the train left the station.

Once back home, the weeks went by slowly.

June turned into July, July to August. Then there was a phone call at Connie-Jean’s desk at the DMV. It was Guy. He’d driven the Mercury all the way down from Denver and was calling from a payphone in front of the Eggs & Ammo convenience store. He had to see her.

They couldn’t risk checking into the Naughty Pine Motor Lodge for fear of being spotted. Crawling into the familiar cabin of the classic coupe, Connie-Jean guided him out to the flat bush area west of town where she’d go watch birds.

Leaving the windows up to avoid the gigantic mosquitos, they reunited in a heated passion that left them exhausted and entwined in each other’s arms. The following morning the sun didn’t wake them up. Nothing did. The temperature of the coupe’s cabin exceeded 160 degrees under the plexiglass roof.

When the sheriff found their naked bodies two days later, he told Carl-Dean she had wandered off the trail while birdwatching and succumbed to the elements.

“At least she died doing what she loved,” Carl-Dean sobbed.

“That she did,” the Sheriff nodded. “That she did.”

There’s something about a Bittersweet and Black interior under the stars.