playing. We can have dinner before.” Austen call s, again on Monday. Most guys call on Wednesday or Thursday, but Monday seems to be his choice. For a moment I wonder why, but it doesn’t really seem important enough to think about.
On Saturday, Ali decides she is going to choose my clothes. Since we moved here she is becoming more California golden girl than Seattle Swedish lass and, on top of that, even more of a fashion fiend than she was before.
“If you’re going to date a rock musician, you might as well look the part. Although why you are going out with him…” She shakes her head. “What you really need is someone else more normal.”
“Ali , I like him. He’s interesting. And you know I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay. I won’t talk about it. So let’s get started. This should be fun.”
She pulls the long black skirt from India out of my closet. The one with the tiny bells. Then she hands me a black knit top of hers that is really low cut and tells me to put it on.
“I can’t wear this,” I say , looking in the mirror. “My boobs show. I’m practically falling out of it.”
“ Wait. Wait. I’m not finished. Here,” she says drawing a long scarf from the closet. “Wear this scarf around your neck but don’t tie it. Just let it flow down your front. It will cover you and give you a romantic middle-ages look. Like Guinevere or some other woman from Camelot.”
The scarf is dark green silk and whisper thin. She adds two thin silver bracelets and a pair of dangling silver earrings. Next comes a luxurious dark forest green sweater coat from her closet—another treasure with a famous label inside she found at our favorite thrift store. It only cost three dollars.
“ Be sure to put tights on under that skirt or you will freeze” she orders. “It’s always so cold here. Now—a little black eyeliner and pale lipstick. Not too much.”
She stands back , looks at me and smiles: “The perfect rock ‘n’ roll girlfriend.”
Austen seems to think so, too. He is in full rock star regalia: a black suede leather jacket with fringes on the sleeves, black leather pants—very sexy—and dark red cowboy boots. As we walk to his car he puts his arm around my shoulders and murmurs: “You look good enough to eat, but I think we’ll have steaks for dinner.”
The restaurant is on a narrow street near Coit Tower above North Beach. Some of the customers—stuffy businessmen in suits and their wives in cocktail dresses—gawk at us when we enter. The Maitre‘d doesn’t blink an eye, but immediately seats Mr. Raneley and his guest at one of the best tables. A heavy white linen tablecloth and napkins are on the table, the silverware gleams, the wine glasses sparkle in the muted light. From the bar at the back I hear soft jazz music.
“The view from here is great,” he says. We can see Oakland and the Bay Bridge through the window next to our table. “No fog tonight either. God, I am really tired of the fog here. It closes in on that house on Lake by 4 o’clock every day.”
He orders steaks for us and red wine. This restaurant has the best steaks in the city he tells me.
“So how did you and your roommate end up living on a houseboat?”
The waiter comes with the bottle of wine and pours a small amount in the wine glass. Austen tastes it and nods his head. The waiter pours wine for both of us and leaves the opened bottle on the table.
“It was our first break from the expected. That sounds weird. It’s a little complicated to explain.”
“I’m listening. ”
“Ali and I met in a coffeehouse in Seattle. We were both sitting there, reading Kerouac’s On the Road . We introduced ourselves and when we began to talk about it, we realized we both had the same reaction: life could be more than what our parents and everyone else expected our lives to be. We wanted lives that were different. Nothing as
On Saturday, Ali decides she is going to choose my clothes. Since we moved here she is becoming more California golden girl than Seattle Swedish lass and, on top of that, even more of a fashion fiend than she was before.
“If you’re going to date a rock musician, you might as well look the part. Although why you are going out with him…” She shakes her head. “What you really need is someone else more normal.”
“Ali , I like him. He’s interesting. And you know I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay. I won’t talk about it. So let’s get started. This should be fun.”
She pulls the long black skirt from India out of my closet. The one with the tiny bells. Then she hands me a black knit top of hers that is really low cut and tells me to put it on.
“I can’t wear this,” I say , looking in the mirror. “My boobs show. I’m practically falling out of it.”
“ Wait. Wait. I’m not finished. Here,” she says drawing a long scarf from the closet. “Wear this scarf around your neck but don’t tie it. Just let it flow down your front. It will cover you and give you a romantic middle-ages look. Like Guinevere or some other woman from Camelot.”
The scarf is dark green silk and whisper thin. She adds two thin silver bracelets and a pair of dangling silver earrings. Next comes a luxurious dark forest green sweater coat from her closet—another treasure with a famous label inside she found at our favorite thrift store. It only cost three dollars.
“ Be sure to put tights on under that skirt or you will freeze” she orders. “It’s always so cold here. Now—a little black eyeliner and pale lipstick. Not too much.”
She stands back , looks at me and smiles: “The perfect rock ‘n’ roll girlfriend.”
Austen seems to think so, too. He is in full rock star regalia: a black suede leather jacket with fringes on the sleeves, black leather pants—very sexy—and dark red cowboy boots. As we walk to his car he puts his arm around my shoulders and murmurs: “You look good enough to eat, but I think we’ll have steaks for dinner.”
The restaurant is on a narrow street near Coit Tower above North Beach. Some of the customers—stuffy businessmen in suits and their wives in cocktail dresses—gawk at us when we enter. The Maitre‘d doesn’t blink an eye, but immediately seats Mr. Raneley and his guest at one of the best tables. A heavy white linen tablecloth and napkins are on the table, the silverware gleams, the wine glasses sparkle in the muted light. From the bar at the back I hear soft jazz music.
“The view from here is great,” he says. We can see Oakland and the Bay Bridge through the window next to our table. “No fog tonight either. God, I am really tired of the fog here. It closes in on that house on Lake by 4 o’clock every day.”
He orders steaks for us and red wine. This restaurant has the best steaks in the city he tells me.
“So how did you and your roommate end up living on a houseboat?”
The waiter comes with the bottle of wine and pours a small amount in the wine glass. Austen tastes it and nods his head. The waiter pours wine for both of us and leaves the opened bottle on the table.
“It was our first break from the expected. That sounds weird. It’s a little complicated to explain.”
“I’m listening. ”
“Ali and I met in a coffeehouse in Seattle. We were both sitting there, reading Kerouac’s On the Road . We introduced ourselves and when we began to talk about it, we realized we both had the same reaction: life could be more than what our parents and everyone else expected our lives to be. We wanted lives that were different. Nothing as
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