For a long time after, Lincoln and Ronnie Anne stayed in the back seat, their arms wrapped around each other. The musk of their love hung heavy in the car, and the windows were fogged with condensation. Lincoln's pants were unzipped and he penis laid limp against his leg; one of Ronnie Anne's breasts poked out from her dress, the buttons having come somehow undone during their tryst. Neither noticed the other's state, however; they noticed only the warmth, the closeness, the safety and love in each other's arms.

"We have to go," she said, her voice thick with drowsiness, "my mom's probably wondering where I am."

Lincoln drew a deep breath, her sweet smell filling his nostrils. "I don't want to," he said, and hugged her tighter.

"Me either," she said and pulled away, "but that's part of growing up – doing things you don't want to." She tucked her breast back in and buttoned up the front of her dress. Lincoln realized his thing was still hanging out, so he put it back and pulled his pants up, zipping them and buckling his belt. He couldn't argue with her logic.

She climbed into the passenger seat and he climbed behind the wheel. He turned the key and the engine caught; he put it in drive and pulled away from the curb. Ronnie Anne lit a cigarette and rolled down the window, letting in a burst of cold air. Lincoln lit his own. "You remember how you keep saying something's 'our song' without asking me?"

She tapped her ash out the window. "Yeah."

"Every time I try to think of one, I go back to The Stroll. You remember how it was playing at the dance when you spiked the punch?"

A mischievous grin spread across her face. "Heh. Yes."

"You know...that was kind of our first date."

"No it wasn't," she said quickly.

Lincoln glanced at her. "I mean...we weren't together yet, but it kind of was...almost."

Ronnie Anne shook her head. "Nope. Remember when we went to Flip's that day you kicked Billy Mason's ass?"

"Yes," he said without hesitation.

She looked at him and smirked. "That was our first date."

"Really?" he chuckled. "I had no idea you saw it like that."

"Remember how Bobby came in and started doing his stupid James Dean routine?"

Lincoln nodded as he took a drag. "Yeah."

"I said to myself 'Bobby, shut up, I'm on a date over here!'"" She laughed and shook her head.

"Really, I didn't know you liked me. I mean, you told me you did before all that, but I just...I don't know, I didn't think it was our first date."

"That's why you should let me doing the thinking, Loud."

He snickered. "Alright. I'll let you do the thinking. You let me do the talking, though. You can be a little...uh..."

She cocked her brow. "A little what?"

"Blunt? Undiplomatic? Sharp? Assholish?"

"I am not assholish," she cried. "That's not even a word, square."

"Anything's a word when you're not slavishly bound to convention."

She giggled. "Spoken like a true lame-o. Or as Bobby Jr. says 'Amo.'"

Lincoln nodded. "Yeah, I'm really glad that's what you have my nephew calling me."

"It's cute and you know it."

He shrugged. "Yeah, it is kinda cute."

By now they were pulling into Ronnie Anne's driveway. She leaned over, took his face in her hands, and kissed him slowly. He kissed her back, one arm snaking around her waist. She tilted her head left and right, her tongue softly caressing his. When she pulled away, she was smiling. "I love you, amo."

"I love you too, asshole."

She pursed her lips and slapped his arm. "Ow!" he cried. "Sorry!"

"You're lucky you're the light of my life, or I'd break your face." She smiled prettily. "See you tomorrow!"

She got out and hurried around the front of the car. He beeped the horn, and she jumped. She spun, grinned, and flipped him off.

He waited until she was inside before backing out.

God, he loved that woman.


Bobby Santiago pulled into the parking spot in front of his building and killed the engine, cutting the radio news mid-speak. What a day. First, one of his guys fell off a ladder and broke his leg; later he (Bobby, not broken leg guy) hurt his back lifting a box; later still, someone blew the president away. Sheesh. Hey, at least someone had a worse day than him, right?

Sighing, he yanked the keys out of the ignition, threw the door open, and climbed out; he winced as pain spread across his lower back. This wasn't the first time he hurt it at work, and it probably wouldn't be the last time either, but for some reason today he felt extra crappy about it, and all he wanted to do was sit down.

He let himself in the front door. Lori was sitting on the couch in front of the TV; being past eight 'o'clock, Bobby Jr. was already asleep, and Bobby felt a twinge of loss. He hated days he had to work late because he got shit for time with his son. November 22nd was a crap day all around.

"Hey," Lori said, glancing away from the screen.

"Hey," he replied and closed the door behind him. He slipped out of his coat and hung it up. He crossed the living room, bent, and kissed her on the lips. "What'cah watching?"

"I Love Lucy."

Bobby glanced at the screen. Lucy and another woman stood at a conveyer belt. "That old show?" he asked as he went into the kitchen.

"It's either that or the news," she said.

"Yeah," he replied as he leaned into the fridge. He grabbed a beer, shut the door, and came back into the living room, dropping next to Lori, "the news stinks today, huh?"

"It's awful," Lori said as Bobby cracked his beer, "I feel so bad for his family." Though she didn't know it, her mother was expressing a similar sentiment across town. "His wife was right there."

Bobby slipped his arm around her and drew her to him as he took a drink. The radio said Mrs. Kennedy was sitting next to her husband when he was shot; Bobby didn't know much about bullets and guns, but he knew enough to figure that the first lady (former first lady) was probably covered in blood and brains. God, imagine you're sitting next to your husband or your wife, the person you love and have children with, and BAM, their head explodes all over you. The thought turned his stomach. "I cried."

He didn't know what to say. Is there ever anything to say when someone dies? "I'm sure a lot of people cried today," he finally said. "I'd probably cry too if I put too much thought into it."

She leaned heavily into him, and he kissed her forehead, his heart swelling with love. He and Lori had already had their differences, but it was moments like this, when she wasn't being bossy or badgering him about buying a house, that he remembered just how much he loved her. He knew they needed more space...but they also needed a second car (he needed the car to run errands at work, and he didn't like leaving her and Bobby Jr. without wheels), and while they could probably juggle a mortgage and two car payments (the Coupe was gone, traded for a 1958 Dodge four-door), that's about all they could juggle. The fact that he wasn't making more money – wasn't able to pay for everything the way a man should – made him feel like a real fucking loser.

"I keep trying not to put myself in her shoes," Lori said, "but then I do and it upsets me all over again." Tears came to her eyes and she wiped them away.

"Shhh," Bobby said and rubbed her arm. "Don't. I'm not going anywhere. Neither is Bobby Jr. and neither are you. Just watch TV, huh?"

She sniffed wetly and rested her head against his chest, the sound of his heartbeat filling the chambers of her head and comforting her. She loved him dearly, and when she thought of what Jackie Kennedy had gone through today – was still even now going through – she shuddered. If it was Bobby, she didn't know what she would do. She imagined she would fall apart and stay apart for a long, long time: Her husband gone, the father of her children gone...it was all too much to bear.

She took Bobby's advice and watched TV, clearing her mind. The thoughts would come back, and as she slept, nightmares too, but for right now, at least, she was in his arms and everything was okay.


"I feel like I shouldn't be this upset," Luan said. She was sitting on the porch swing next to Clyde, her knees together and her hands balled in her lap. Her head was bowed and her eyes, through dry, were puffy. She tugged on the hem of her skirt and chewed her bottom lip. "It's not like I knew him or anything."

Clyde leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees. "Well...you kind of did. Being the president and all, he was always on TV, always talking...you didn't know him personally, but you still knew him, and, when it comes to ideas, he had a big impact on you, right?"

Luan nodded, her mind flashing back to the first time she heard Kennedy speak. She agreed with what he had to say, of course, but there was some indefinable quality that drew her to him, something that she just liked; sometimes you like someone on sight, and sometimes you hate someone on sight. Why, she couldn't say. Only that from the moment she saw him and heard him speak, she was enamored of him. When he talked, he seemed to be talking to her, to her hopes and her dreams for a better future, a future where everyone could be happy and prosperous and live in peace. Finding out he was killed...it was like finding out her own aspirations had been killed.

"And we have a way of...I don't know...binding ourselves to people we agree with." He stopped and collected his thoughts for a moment. "It used to be when someone insulted Richard Nixon, I would get really mad. Like, when we got into that argument...I was steamed. I took all that stuff you said about him to heart. You know why?"

"Why?" she asked.

"Because when someone insulted him, it was kind of like they were insulting me. You know, he was my guy, I liked what he said, I liked him...and when someone said something bad about him, I took it personal. It was never just 'I don't like Nixon, he's a loser' it was 'I don't like Nixon, he's a loser, and so are you.' I bet you're the same, right?"

She nodded and swallowed. "Yeah," she admitted, "I am. I put all my hopes into him and him dying was like them dying too."

"I bet," he said. "Nixon losing the election – being rejected – was like me being rejected. It really upset me. I did a lot of soul searching after that, and I kind of realized how dangerous it is to take politics to heart like that. If we keep it up, one day – fifty years from now – we won't be one country, we'll be two parties locked in a constant political, social, and moral standoff. It'll be like the Civil War and the Cold War combined: Brother against brother, son against father, no one speaking to each other, people cutting family members out of their lives because they're on the 'other side'." He shook his head slowly. "That's not the kind of world I want to live in."

Luan considered his words for a minute and nodded. "Yeah, it sounds bad."

"All politicians are kind of scummy when you get down to it. Kennedy was probably no exception, but he did a good job, and, you know, I kind of liked him once I got used to him." He chuckled.

"I'm sorry I said all that stuff about Nixon," she said.

"Don't be," he said, "it's not important."

A cold wind gusted, and Luan shivered. Her face and legs were cold and heatless. Clyde tensed.

"I didn't mean to insult you is all," she replied, "I like you, you're cool."

Clyde laughed. "Thanks, you're pretty cool too – for a Democrat." He grinned and nudged her in the ribs. "How, uh...how do you feel about Johnson?"

Luan grimaced. "I don't like him. He strikes me as kind of...I don't know..." she grasped for a word.

"Old guard?" he supplied.

"Yeah," she nodded, "exactly that."

"He's the kind of Democrat who doesn't like blacks. Guaranteed. Oh, he might sign bills or whatever, but I know his type. He'd sooner hang me from a tree than eat at the same table as me."

"You're probably right."

"Of course I am," Clyde said archly. "At the end of the day, though, what does it matter? He'll do his time, then someone else will come along, then someone else, then someone else and life goes on." Another gust raked them, and they both shivered. "Do you feel better?" he asked.

"Kind of," she said, then smiled at him. "Thank you."

"No problem," he said. "I guess I'll take off now. I'm turning into a popsicle."

"Alright," she said, but realized it wasn't. She didn't want him to go. "Thanks again." She leaned in to hug him, and he leaned into her: Instead, their lips brushed and for a moment neither knew what to do. Then, he opened his mouth and she opened hers, and they kissed, their tongues tentatively and awkwardly investigating each other, touching, exploring, testing the waters: When each found the other agreeable, the kiss deepened, their heads tilting and their tongues flopping and lashing vehemently. When it broke, both were panting, both were blushing; blood crashed pleasantly in Luan's temples and she felt warm and tingly all over.

"Goodnight," she said.

"Goodnight," he said with a smile and got up. He was on the stairs when she spoke, "Hey."

"Yeah?" he asked, turning.

"Maybe we can do something soon. Like a date."

He grinned and nodded. "I'd like that."

Their first date came two days later, November 24, and it suited them fine: They sat close together on the Loud family couch and watched live on NBC as Kennedy's assassin, a slight man with blonde hair named Lee Harvey Oswald, was escorted through the parking garage under the Dallas Police Headquarters toward an armored car that would take him to the county lock-up; his hands were cuffed in front, and a detective in a cowboy hat was on either side of him. Leni knitted and Luan's mother sat on the opposite end, her arms crossed. Luan and Clyde's hands were clasped.

A sea of reporters crowded around the alleged killed and his captors, standing back just enough to allow them passage. Then, suddenly, a man in a dark suit and hat sprang from the pack, jammed a gun into Oswald's stomach, and pulled the trigger: A shot rang out, and a dozen cops wrestled him to the ground.

Luan and Clyde both gaped.

"Oh, my God!" Rita cried and sat forward.

"He's been shot! He's been shot! Lee Oswald has been shot!"

A cop screamed, "Get out! Get out!" and waved the reporters back.

"Complete panic has broken out here in the basement of Dallas Police Headquarters. Detectives have their guns drawn..."

"They shot the bad guy?" Leni asked, startling everyone. She did not look up from her knitting.

"Y-Yes, dear, t-they s-shot him," Rita stammered, in shock.

"Good," Leni spat, "he took my shows away."

Less than two hours later, Lee Harvey Oswald died...and Leni got her shows back.