Bay Area Stew
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Across the Room
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It might easily be attributed to happenstance or coincidence, certainly not providence. I was enjoying a drink and the lively atmosphere at Perry’s, a popular upscale bar in San Francisco’s Marina district—crowded this time of day—as afternoon turned to evening. Then I spotted you across the room, and in a moment my Johnny Walker Black was no longer comforting.
It was not a place we frequented. You sat with a girlfriend—someone I didn’t recognize—drinking a glass of white wine. You always drank white wine when your life was comfortable. You drank red when your life was red; when you were angry or upset. I wondered if it was a fume blanc, sauvignon blanc or a pinot grigio; with you it would never be a chardonnay. It made no difference. Your selection of any of the varietals never gave me a clue as to your mood or thoughts. Had it really been two years? The Giants had won the World Series and we celebrated that night with friends at the Valley Tavern in Noe Valley. I don’t remember the wine you selected, but it was a white, and not a chardonnay. Things change, people change. Hard to believe it happened in less than a couple of weeks after that joyful celebration, when we seemed to have been so happy. You announced your decision to leave; supported by valid arguments that left me stunned. The opportunity to redeem myself had passed, and you were convinced I was incapable of changing. And so, at your insistence, we separated. I found it difficult to accept, but acquiesced, wishing to avoid an ugly scene. I didn’t just miss you; there seemed to be a vacuum nothing could fill. Not entirely true; nature abhors a vacuum and mine was filled with scotch. Your friend said something and you both laughed. How I loved your girlish laugh—missed it now—unable to hear it from where I sat. I finished my drink, signaled the barmaid, paid my bill and left. Outside on Union Street I derided the vicissitudes of life, feeling empty, unable to summon any anger. It seemed time had weathered my bitterness into heartache. There are mistakes we make which can’t be taken back, apologies that never fully heal or are never honestly accepted. A half block away I found my bus stop, sat, and zipped up my jacket against the wintry wind of July’s impassive fog, hardly caring when the next bus would arrive. It made no difference; I wasn’t sure where I was going. |
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Bill Carpenter has a degree in Creative Arts with an emphasis in film. A San Francisco resident for over forty years, his career has been as a CAD (computer aided drafting) specialist in engineering and architecture. He has taken classes through OLLI at SF State, off and on, since 2005. In 2010, he began writing seriously and concentrating on the writing classes offered through OLLI at SF State.
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