Bon Iver wanted to show me that it is okay to cry when you are sad. He squeezed his eyes shut and his face was marked by sorrow. Moments later, his eyes were wet. He shuddered. ‘Bon Iver,’ I said, and placed a hand on his bare chest to calm him, ‘what made you so suddenly sad?’
He choked and wiped his eyes. ‘Deforestation,’ he whispered.
I asked Bon Iver to describe a perfect day. ‘We spend the morning picking wildflowers in the field near the one-room schoolhouse. When the sun is high, we find a shade tree, spread out our Navajo blanket, and share a salad of organic arugula and some rosemary bread I baked. You wear a picture hat and a linen romper. I bring my banjo and play all your favorite Woody Guthrie songs. In the evening, we smoke hand-rolled cigarettes and drink whiskey from a jam jar. When the whiskey’s gone and we’ve smoked our last cigarette, we make love on the back porch with only the light of the fireflies to see each other by.’
This morning, after our passionate and tender lovemaking, Bon Iver brought me fresh-brewed coffee in a mug he’d carved out of the branch of a tree that fell in the wind. I sipped it while he hummed and assembled his ice-fishing gear.