This day, right now, I’m too confused to write about what’s going on "out there,” in the “real world,” peopled by “the others” who make the rules. Too many moving pieces with no obvious plan. Random? Makes me dizzy. I want to settle things down with a story in my own mind where I get to make up the beginning and the middle and the end. This day, right now, I want to write about Benny and Abby.

Benny and Abby first met on a dating site a few weeks before his final run, the end of his 20-year career as an over-the-road trucker, a new life on savings and Social Security.

She started it.

He was eastbound on I-94 in Montana going to Minneapolis with a load of lumber from a mill on the Oregon coast when his cell phone did the text ding thing, letting him know that somebody from the dating site had sent him a message. That always set his thoughts in motion, imagining all the scenarios that might possibly be about to unfold. What was love like in your 70s? Could it be… finally… honest? Was it ever not?

He pulled his truck to a stop on the gravel shoulder of the next exit ramp. It was the northern plains, hardly a tree in sight in any direction all the way to all the horizons, rolling grasslands dotted with black specks of grazing cattle far off in the distance, near where Custer made his last stand.

He set his air brakes, sat back, pushed a few quantum age buttons on his cell phone and read:

[ABBY] “Hello there. I like your profile.”

She added an emoji with a questioning expression on its yellow face like, “Mmmm. Wonder what this one’s like.”

With his right index finger, he pecked out a reply:

[BENNY] “On the road in Montana. Haven’t had a chance to read your profile yet. Will I be impressed?”

Glancing at her profile while waiting for her to reply, he noticed her age. He wasn’t into “younger” women. She was his age, same generation, the Baby Boomers — the shared experience of a demographic black swan. They’d have lots to talk about, like where they were when they first heard that the President had been shot; the day we landed on the moon; Woodstock; the Beatle’s first appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show.

Benny took a deep breath and looked around inside the great blue dome enclosing Montana. He’d met other women his age on the dating site in recent years, mostly all of them looking for “that someone special” with whom to share their final golden years of femininity… sunset walks along a secluded beach, travel and a healthy, natural and perfectly balanced diet. Some wanted to ride motorcycles. Some liked casinos. Some wanted to get lost in the mountains. Most worked out regularly at the gym, or so they said in their profiles. Few turned out to be like their profiles. Benny figured that maybe they were just bad writers, or didn’t know themselves.

Not that Benny was any guru of self-awareness. He’d never found the love that stays and had always figured it must be his fault. He’d had a Dominican education. Everything was his fault.

Scrolling through her profile, he noticed that Abby (if that was her real name) lived in Denver, or, actually, in Denver’s easternmost suburb — Aurora, where Benny’s daughter lived and where he’d be living in their basement apartment with everything he’d need until he decided on his next move.

Abby described her body as “athletic.” Her favorite song was Judy Garland singing “Over the Rainbow.” She was taking classes to learn how to speak French. The face in her profile photo expressed confidence without makeup or pierced ears. The hair was a little reddish, but mostly white. The eyes were dark and deep set with a color that didn’t have a name. Looking at her looking at him from behind the iPhone screen, Benny got the feeling like she knew what he was thinking. It freaked him out a little at first, but then his iPhone did the text ding thing again:

[ABBY] “Depends on what impresses you.”

[BENNY] “Did you see in my profile where it says that I’m a trucker? But I’m getting ready to retire. Just a few more runs and that will be it.”

[ABBY] “Yes, I noticed that you’re a trucker, but that’s not what impressed me.”

[BENNY] “Maybe that I’m a writer? I think I mentioned that in my profile too. I wrote the profile years ago and I can’t remember what’s in it.”

[ABBY] “Yes, I noticed that you’re a writer, too. But what impressed me was your answer to the question about your idea of a perfect first date.”

[BENNY] “What did I say?”

[ABBY] “You said that if I cooked, you’d do the dishes.”

[BENNY] “True.”

[ABBY] “And I liked your answer to the question about what interests you.”

[BENNY] “What did I say?”

[ABBY] “Everything.”

[BENNY] “That’s pretty true, too.”

[ABBY] “What do you write about? Everything?”

[BENNY] “Right now, I’m writing a book about economics. It has to be a novel with a love story and international intrigue because nobody reads books about economics.”

[ABBY] “How’s it going?”

[BENNY] “Ok. I’ve been working on it for almost twenty years, since shortly after 9/11… just two big problems… I don’t understand economics and I don’t know how to write a book.”

[ABBY] "Sounds like a good start."

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