a boy and a girl, too young to be married, much less parents, sit in the parked car around three in the morning following one of his shows. both are exhausted from the endless arguing and disappointments. he is smoking a cigarette. she is desperately trying to figure out what to say next, what to do to lift them from this suffocating place. the familiar acoustic strums of best of my love drift from the radio. the song, already over ten years old, isn't a favorite of either, but they both know all the words by heart. because eagles music softly accompanied the raising of kids in southern california in the 70s. she leans her face against the window and stares up at the night sky, his gaze falls straight ahead and they begin to sing along. there is a moment of lightness, the magnetic pull of a shared story, but as the music fades out, they both know that singing that song is the last thing they will do together.