20 July 2010 at 8:09 pm
Of my apartment, she comments on how I have a good sense of color. She had been in school to be an interior designer, but dropped out when this guy offered to support her lifestyle at the cost of her independence.
On the drive to her stepdad's place, she says, "Ohmygod, is that Marko? Is he out looking for me?" It is not; just a generic white guy in a generic white car.
"God," she really does say, "it's just like me to think everything is about me."
"It's a phase we all go through," I comfort her, in my way.
We get to her stepdad's house, and it's just coincidence that he lives across from the house where I spent the first three years of my Santa Barbara life, with a boy to whom I was too young to be so committed, who did not always treat me so well. She asks me to wait, and gets out and walks towards a man smoking out front. Apparently, this widow-peaked, jet-black-haired 40-something gentleman is not her stepfather and was not so happy to see her, she says after she collapses back into the passenger seat.
"What do you want to do?" I ask.
"I can go to Irene's. She lives off Glen Annie."
I drive her towards the university, and we enter a salmon-hued development, and I help her carry the suitcase and the garbage bag to the front door. An older women opens the door, and three little dogs run out and sniff our feet. Lucille walks in, peaks her head out, and says, Thank you, and I wave and say, Good luck, and leave and find a quiet corner at my bar and drink a glass of wine, and breathe in deeply a dusk saturated with the stale, salty ocean air.
mod l post-mod