Jake leaned back in his chair and scratched the back of his neck as had been his habit since he was a kid when he was trying really hard to remember something. He frowned.
Pete took another sip of his beer, watching his friend. He didn’t ask the question. Men just didn’t. If Jake wanted to tell him what he was trying to recall, he would. Simple as that. The two men had spent many hours in companionable silence. That’s what you did when you had a history. You didn’t have to fill it with small talk.
A fly buzzed around the bottle of hard cider near Jake’s hand. He watched it dip and dive in the fading evening light, dancing around the rim. Just as it prepared to land he exhaled with a whoosh, blowing the insect away.
“Rebecca. That was her name,” Jake said, no longer scratching the back of his neck.
“Rebecca who?” said Pete, who hadn’t been privy to Jake’s internal train of thought.
“You know, I don’t think I ever did get her last name. Just didn’t seem to matter much at the time.”
“August 16th, 1969,” Jake said with a twinkle in his eye.
“Ahhh,” said Pete, suddenly wise to Jake’s reminiscing, “You met her on the second day didn’t you.”
“Yeah, late in the afternoon when we went down to the pond to wash some of the mud off. She was just standin’ there. Short hair. Biting her bottom lip as she looked at me. Wearin’ nothing but some jean shorts. I’d never seen a pair of tits I wanted to touch more.”
“They were something,” Pete agreed, but now he had begun his own trip down memory lane. Those four days at Woodstock had been life changing for Pete. But not in the way you would expect.
“I wonder what ever happened to that girl,” Jake mused.
“No way to know,” Pete said, as he leaned back and closed his eyes, remembering.