You can’t believe you’re here. It’s been weeks since you’ve been out with the girls.
It was seven twenty when Cat came to your room. The show begins at eight. You had ten minutes, just enough time to change your top – a silky green halter you bought for $ 15 in a tiny boutique in the Haight, last time you went to the city. You pulled your wild dark hair into a ponytail, ran a mascara wand over your lashes.
It’s great to be in the car with your friends, to feel their heat, listen to them laughing.
Lili drove, Cat riding shotgun. Anita, beside you in the backseat, lights a joint. You don’t smoke – losing control makes you anxious – nor do you judge others who do.
In the car, though? What if you get pulled over? You swallow a reprimand, praying you won’t pass a cop, and look out your window while the others get high.
You missed the sixties, but you’re a huge Bob Dylan fan anyway. You hum Lay Lady Lay, your favorite song. Dreamily, you wonder if this guy, Tyler, will be any good.
Ten minutes later, admission paid, your hand stamped, you’re making your way through the club. You’re a few minutes late. The singer is already on stage, on a stool, strumming his guitar. He’s better looking than you had expected. Tall, blond, chiseled. Alpha male, you think. Probably stupid. He notices you, catches your eye.
The coffeehouse is crowded and dark. You bump arms and legs as you make your way to the back. The girls are giggling, people turning, staring as you pass by.
The room goes silent and you glance at the stage. The singer is clearly annoyed.