Nxt posting will b updating BE part of THE SOLUTION.
She laughed, the Fallopian tubes get tied to prevent pregnancy….
They didn’t see each other much anymore. When they did, it was difficult to be spontaneous, to really talk to each other.
Next time Bert called, she told him how busy she was, You know school, working. Let me call you, maybe during summer brake. It was only January.
THE COURSES ALBA was taking in Spanish, English and French at State demanded more and more of her. She was a extremely hard working student striving always to be the best. Nothing less than an A. She earned Honors. Did her Masters in two years financed mostly by Fellowships earned: “FOR YOUR ACADEMIC EXCELLENCE AND COMMITMENT TO ACADEMIC EQUALITY.”
It was nineteen-eighty-seven. She was fifty-four. And as always, looked half her age. Fit. Keeping up all her excellent maintenance routine. And mentally, more than ever through all her classes, and her involvement in writer’s groups. It was all the editing, rewriting. And learning the computer. And there were the Open Mics, which she loved, a different one every night. Enough for every taste. They happened in bars, cafes, schools, book stores, libraries.
Alba was making an excellent living as Interpreter-Translator. Active in writing groups, In Open Mics she became quite popular. Her favorite spot, THE BLUE MONKEY Café, in Hayes Valley. Big. Airy. Colorful. One entire wall was enhance with a mural of a purple monkey in its natural habitat. The Café sold great pastry, sandwiches. Delicious coffee. Open Mic nights it overflowed with people. And yet those evenings were disciplined, entertaining, because the woman that run the series paid attention to each reader, gave all equal time, positive criticism, a lot praise. One night, particularly inspired Alba read a short story that was very well received.
When the Open Mic was over, a tall, good looking guy with a pony
tail, accompanied by two or three other persons approached her. The tall guy said, I never heard a better written short story….
SIXTEEN YEARS LATER they were still seeing each other. Alba was now seventy-five. It was two-thousand-eight. And, as a product of the times, had had plastic surgery. Botox, for maintenance. Continued her active life mental, sexual, physical, spiritual. Kept herself slender at one hundred twelve pounds, perfect for her five two, small bone frame.
Her relationship with Ray was of occasional lovers. He was a technical writer for a big corporation downtown San Francisco. Creative at love making. Passionate. They met at her house. Or his apartment in the Avenues where his enormous bed was a huge playpen. Great for enjoying all kinds of delightful positions. And where in the mornings he would serve her coffee and sometimes make her quesadillas. And where his cat would curl up and sleep between them. When they met he always had presents for her, CDs, tapes, flowers, books of her favorite Spanish authors. And through the years was always most flattering, to him she was always beautiful, always funny. He would burst out loud, She is beautiful. She is funny. And laugh, delighted––each time––as with a new found discovery. Another plus, he loved everything Latin. He knew as much or more than Alba of Latin American and Spanish music and literature. They always had a lot to talk about. Enjoyed music, movies, going out to dinner.
Alba sometimes got frustrated with the infrequency of their love making. But her anxieties were appeased, nurtured through the praise she got at work, at the Open Mics. She frequented men friends. Enjoyed their company. Her poems and fiction started to get published. Writing, editing, submitting kept her happily busy.
ONE LATE AFTERNOON, at the commuter’s hour, crowds everywhere downtown San Francisco. Many trying to get out of the city, catch a bus, a cable car, a street car, a taxi, get on BART. In the midst of all that, a familiar face appeared in front of Alba. .................