Bon Iver went into town to fetch his boots from the cobbler and pick up a part for the tractor, which has been sputtering angrily of late. I’ve been sitting in the front yard listening for the sound of his footsteps and wondering what kind of surprise he’s brought. Will it be a bag of maple candy from the drugstore or a pretty floral apron he found at a rummage sale? Maybe he’ll have picked up a few used records so we can spend the night feeling out the pops and scratches that make the songs we’ve heard a hundred times somehow different and new.
The sun is starting to set and there’s still no sign of him. I fall asleep in the yard and awake to find him standing over me with a large bruise around his right eye and a deep gash in his forehead. ‘What happened my love?’ I gasp.
‘A neighbor offered me a ride home, and we had a spill,’ he says solemnly. ‘I’m fine, but the maple candy I bought you was completely ruined.’
‘Oh Bon Iver, you’re sweeter to me than all the maple candy in the whole world. I’m just glad you’re alive.’
‘Me too,’ he says. ‘But it was a really good batch of maple candy.’