Nxt posting will b updating BE part of THE SOLUTION.
caminchabenvenutto.com
pg.
10
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
pg.
11
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. .................
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