Oh, and as for the upholstery, well let’s just say a forensic technologist would have found human DNA (the majority of which was mine) scattered throughout the interior by way of sweat glands, mucous membranes, tear ducts, blood vessels, and urinary/fecal tracts. In fact, somewhere near the middle of the backseat dried traces of spermatozoa would have glowed green upon exposure to luminol and black light. Indeed, as far as stains go, it was a memorable one—the result of a tryst with the girl who worked at the gas station I frequented. She was putting herself through college, and when the end of my shift coincided with hers, I’d drive her home for free, because I liked the way her pale blonde hair fell about her face, and I liked the mischief in her eyes. One night, halfway to her parent’s house, she told me that my newly grown beard made me look like Dostoevsky, and then she laughed because she saw my eyes darken with the snares of vanity as I envisioned the author’s portrait on the cover of Crime and Punishment. There I was doubting the innocence of a remark that was a compliment insofar as it had been inspired by something I had said to her on a previous occasion. It was a rare admission of mine, and had I not spoken of it, then her hand would not have found its way over to feel the whiskers on the Russian part of my face, and she would not have motioned for me to turn into the entrance of a wintry park, and we would not have come to a stop between the cloistering drifts of snow, and this paragraph would surely not have been written into the pages of that which I rarely admitted.