There I was, just sort of lolling around on the spread when it suddenly transpired that Bob Dylan was there with me. I could not believe it! I was in bed with Bob Dylan. There was no sort of together in bed implications--we were both fully dressed and on top of the covers. He sat with a pillow propped up against the headboard. I lay supine, reversed, my head down by the foot of the bed. I lied; I wasn't fully dressed. I'd taken my shoes off so as not to dirty the other pillow, which was pulled out and cushioning my socks.

There was no way to be anything but totally honored to have such a hero sitting at my feet. Bob had a beat-up acoustic guitar; he was just sort of plucking couplets at random. A shiver started in my spine: maybe he would actually play me a song. I would swoon, then spend the rest of my life bragging about it.

As though reading my mind, Bob caught my gaze and held it, then gave me a tight little nod. Up until then, he'd barely glanced at me. And now he was strumming chords, examining progressions, constructing a song for me.

Then, in that inimitable and improbable Minnesota twang, Bob Dylan started singing me a song, singing a song for me, singing a song at me, singing a song about me: