So it's late. Early morning or late night, whatever. I'm sitting in the living room with the TV on, volume low, muting the commercials because Angela's asleep in the bedroom. She's a sound sleeper, sure, never knows I've left the room, but I don't want to take any chances. Besides, everything on TV is boring. Almost every night I get up and wander around Angela's tiny adobe house. House is a generous word. It was built in the back yard of a real house—an “income property.” One bedroom, one bathroom, a kitchen and a small living room. It's like someone said, "Hey, let's build a house in our back yard. We can rent it out for whatever it takes to pay our mortgage, it’s close enough to hear everything going on in there, we can see half of whatever they do, we can kick them out if we don't like them." What a racquet! I can’t believe what it costs to live in such a tiny house in this town. Angela has been lucky, though. Lucky because she has lived in this house for two years and her landlord hasn't raised the rent, yet. Of course, she's already paying more than a one bedroom house could ever be worth. But why should I complain. She lets me stay here for free until I find work. We've been together for two months, Angela and me. My car broke down on the highway outside of Santa Fe. Angela picked me up off the side of the road, same way she got her dog Chewy and the cat that comes around only for dinner.

She's a good woman. I like her. But I know she's isn't The One. I'm still searching for The One. Friend of mine once said, "You'll know when you find The One. Your heart will swell up and you won't be able to think straight." Trouble is, that happens every time I meet a good looking woman who seems attracted to me. So I've learned to wait at least a month. Seldom takes longer. Angela took three weeks. When the doubt started creeping in, I knew. Then I started getting irritated with the noises she makes while she sleeps and the way she leaves her panties laying everywhere. So I'm still looking, keeping my eyes open for The One.

But, for now, I enjoy my late night wandering. I can watch TV, read Angela's magazines (the garbage they feed women is unbelievable), or just sit and make up songs. She never knows. It makes me laugh out loud sometimes. I feel like James Bond. I've been through every square inch of this tiny house. Not like being nosy or looking for something to take. It's just part of the game. I know where she has $100 hidden, a couple of nude photos of herself, a box of condoms, and letters from her husband who died in Desert Storm. But I wouldn’t do anything wrong. I always put everything back where she had it. She never knows. Secret agent man.

The only time I don't get up at night is when her brother, Benny, stays here. He sleeps on the couch. He doesn't like me. Calls me gringo, like it's his country and I'm a foreigner. I stay clear of him. He has those eyes like some of the guys had at Huntsville prison in Texas, those eyes that are watching for you to make one wrong move. Angela keeps him off of me, but, of course, he has threatened more than once to kick my ass or worse if I hurt his sister. Says I'm not half the man her husband was, war hero, could have been an officer if he had wanted, etc.

He has another look for me, the one that says, "If my sister wasn't here, I'd slit your throat."

Benny stays here when he thinks the cops are looking for him. He likes to steal cars. He's only been caught twice. Did a little time. He thinks he knows who I am. He doesn't. But I know who he is. The prisons are full of guys like him, in and out of jail, no concern for their future. I know who he is, that's why I stay away from him. I want a future. That’s why I’m back on my way to L.A. soon. I’ve got a plan.

Angela is a sweet woman with a warm heart. She also has a nice, soft body. When I lay up against her, I feel real welcome. She kind of feels like a favorite pillow; her skin is so soft, like a worn sweater. She moans sweetly whenever I touch her body. I like knowing that I can please her. She certainly knows how to please me.

She never had kids with her husband. She fell out of a pickup truck when she was fourteen. Screwed up her insides, she says. She also says not having kids doesn't bother her much, but it does. She worries that she doesn’t please me enough. I can have sex with her whenever I want it and we don't have to worry about her getting pregnant. But I don't really want sex that often because she isn't The One.

Sometimes before she falls asleep, she talks about the future. She likes to dream about big houses and trips to foreign places she reads about in the travel section of the newspaper. I listen for a while, then I remind her that it's best to live in the present, enjoy the "now." I learned that line from my cellmate, Hardy.

Hardy was smooth. He convinced twenty three women to give him control of their finances. He's owned things that I've only seen on TV. He's been places I've never heard of, eaten at fancy restaurants, and owned expensive cars. What a life! Of course, his bunk wasn't any better than mine in our cell. But he was smooth. Last I heard, he's working on an oil rig, trying to go straight, but I wouldn't be surprised to learn that he's working on a scam to steal an oil well.

Maybe tomorrow night I'll write him a letter.

Late night is my time. That's why I like it. I don't have to answer to anybody. I can go in the kitchen, the bathroom, or the living room, wherever I want to go. And I can be alone. Not the kind of alone like prison, where you want someone to lift you out—take you away. I mean the kind of alone that is your own choice.

I guess I'll go back to bed, snuggle up close to Angela, wake her up if I feel like sex, or not…snore if I want to. Tomorrow, when Angela goes to work, maybe I'll walk around downtown, hang out at the Plaza. Maybe I'll find The One. If not, at least I know where I'll be sleeping tomorrow night.