She had no idea when the pretty little waitress first started working at the restaurant. It was indeed possible she'd been there for months but she only noticed her when her lover came out with an admiring comment after she'd served them wine.
"Nice arse," she murmured.
Carole fixed Katherine with a steady smile as she leaned on the table.
"I hadn't noticed."
"You didn't?" Katherine raised an elegantly sculptured eyebrow, "you're slipping in your old age, it's an arse custom built for cream," she smiled as Carole winced, "ouch, now that got your motor started."
She wasn't wrong there. Katherine was an English teacher working at the university and her English accent still entranced her. She'd come to San Diego seeking the sun in 1992 and four years down the track was well ensconced in the local gay community. Since the passion of that first night however the ardour had cooled and she found herself mentally recording Katherine's appointments and analysing them at various times of the day. How long did she spend with students and in meetings? Was she really alone on certain nights or did she have visitors?
It was only when they were leaving an hour or so later that Carole finally had the chance to glance at her buttocks and privately admit they were perfectly rounded and yes, perhaps cream would look nice on them.
That was three months ago and for the last eight weeks she'd been dining alone here after Katherine broke up with her with the classic line.
"I'm sorry, it's not you it's me."
Katherine was just one in a long line of failed relationships and in retrospect she'd been a mere stopgap on the way to someone else. Every time she came to this restaurant she was reminded of her but life could become very dull indeed if one stayed away from certain places because of old memories.
The pretty little waitress still held her attention and over the last two months she'd worked out her shifts and it was not as if she was stalking the woman, she needed some small matter with which to occupy her mind while she processed the death of this latest relationship. By now she knew her name, Marina, she was Hispanic but spoke with a local accent and she was exceedingly polite in a way that suggested she actually liked her job.
"Would you like to order your wine?"
"So, what do you recommend?" Carole pulled her attention from the black suit and white shirt, conscious that she'd been staring.
"The house special is," Marina stopped as Carole held up her hand.
"I don't want to know the house special, I want to know what you recommend."
"Zinfandel, it's a red wine."
"Zinfandel," she repeated, "sounds foreign."
"It's from the Napa Estate, Storybook Mountain."
"Storybook Mountain," she smiled crookedly, "how appropriate is that?"
"Pardon?"
"I'm a book editor," she replied, "sorry, bad joke."
"Oh," she smiled, "I'm doing my arts degree."
"I see," she pursed her lips as she scanned the menu, "what's your major?"
"Fine Arts," she teased a lock of hair behind her ear, "I'd like to work in advertising."
"Don't," Carole winced, "believe me, it looks glamorous but the hours suck and in the end you're just another artist with a pen," she leaned back, "but whatever rocks your boat, I think I'll have the Zinfandel."
"Of course," Marina noted it on a pad, "thanks for the tip."
"You're welcome," she smiled.
Marina returned the smile as she retreated to fetch her order and Carole felt a twinge of guilt. She made a half hearted attempt at salvaging the situation when Marina returned with the bottle and proceeded to open it.
"So, you've got a portfolio?"
"I surely do," she popped the cork, "I've been drawing for years."
"Maybe I could take a look sometime," she shook her head as Marina held out the cork, "if you're happy with me looking."
"Okay," she started pouring the wine, "say when."
"Um," she looked down at the glass as she thought quickly, "I'm busy the rest of the week but how about early next week?"
"Monday or Tuesday? I have to work Wednesday through to Saturday nights."
"Tuesday," Carole took a notepad from her purse, "here, write down your details and I'll call at the end of the week to tee up a time."
Her handwriting was exquisite and she caught the scent of expensive perfume. Had she been wearing that a few minutes ago? She squinted at the address and phone number.
"I know where that is, you're not far from me."
"Thanks for offering."
"My pleasure," she sipped the wine, "all right, we'll set up a date."
Marina murmured her thanks but the subject wasn't discussed that night, although she did leave a generous tip and that earned her a smile as she farewelled her.
Nevertheless, the invitation left her a little uneasy. Marina looked to be at least ten to fifteen years her junior and that could be either good or bad depending on your perspective.
"Older women are definitely more attractive to younger women," one of her friends commented as they strolled along the beach.
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," she looked over at Helena. She was currently hooked up with a twenty eight year old woman, although Helena didn't look forty.
"On the other hand if I play devil's advocate I'd question why you're even interested in her, she's even younger than Katherine. You've got to tread carefully or you'll wind up with one of those bi straight curious types who dumps you for the first alpha male whenever it suits her."
"Well we're not there yet," she stared out at the ocean, "God, I don't even know which way she swings."
"But you'd like her to swing your way."
"You say that like it's a bad thing," she lowered her hand, "I'm just showing a little interest in a younger woman. All I know is she's a college student, she works as a waitress, she's hotter than hell and she's Hispanic."
"Sounds like the perfect woman but tread carefully."
It was advice that was repeated that night by two other friends Mandy and Tracey at a party to celebrate three years together.
"You gotta play it safe," Tracey told her as they sat drinking by the pool, "you're prepping for this visit like a midterm. She's asked you to come and look at her portfolio, not her pussy and if it comes to that then more power to you."
"I just wanna know if she's straight, gay, bi or curious."
"Well your curiosity is about to be rewarded one way or another," she replied.
Curiosity seemed an appropriate word to describe her frame of mind that Tuesday afternoon when she pulled up outside the apartments on Vision Drive, a short drive from the university. Marina's apartment was closest to the street and she was sitting on the second floor balcony with an easel. At first she thought Marina hadn't seen her. She was engrossed in painting but then she raised her sunglasses and held out a hand in welcome.
"Hey," she called out, "I thought you'd stood me up."
"I got caught up with paperwork at the office," she replied.
"Come on up," she gestured, "door's around the side."
Her apartment was one of several overlooking a central driveway and it looked much the same as the others from the outside, the cream coloured walls and balconies must have been designed by the same architect. But the interior did cause her to take a step back and evaluate. The first thing she saw was a large poster of Che Guevera that had been staple student decoration for over twenty years. Her first serious girlfriend on campus had been a Che groupie. How many times had they made out with Che looking on?
The second thing she noticed was a fairly lifelike painting of former First Lady Jackie Kennedy wearing that infamous pink suit the day her husband was gunned down. There was no mistaking the man standing beside her taking the oath of office on Air Force One and Marina's eyes shifted as Carole stared at it.
"That was one of my first paintings, it's called A Successful Coup."
"It's very good," she stepped over for a closer look, "almost like a photograph."
"Until you get up close," Marina joined her, "I messed up down there," she pointed.
"You're a typical artist," Carole chuckled, "always the first to criticise and the last to accept praise, this should be in a gallery."
"Thank you."
"So I take it you're a Democrat?"
"No, just a humanist," she tugged at her ponytail, "when you go to a Catholic school, you go one of two ways. There's no prizes for guessing which way I went," she smiled.
"I'm a Missouri girl," she replied, "although I've dated a few Catholic women."
"Okay," Marina smiled at her, "so, you want to see my portfolio?"
"Lead the way."
Her portfolio was quite impressive and Carole soon identified a common theme in the vast majority of her pictures.
"You like women," she stared at a picture of a woman leaning against a wall.
"I like the female form, yes," she settled back in her chair, "and I wanted to focus on the way women are portrayed in the media."
"Boy that's a loaded question," she smiled.
"It is," she replied and looked at her, "I'm very much aware of the glass ceiling."
"We all are but rather than rail against it, why not accept the obvious?"
"I do, the ceiling is glass not steel."
It was one of several gems she dropped that afternoon, little sayings or reworked proverbs that hinted of a greater intelligence behind the youthful good looks. Her parents were both born in El Salvador but managed to escape over the border into Honduras where Marina was born in 1974 and three years later they moved to the United States after her father's brother sponsored a visa.
"My parents moved to Los Angeles three years ago but now they're divorced."
"And you stayed here," Carole stated the obvious.
"I was raised here," she shrugged, "I like it here. Don't get me wrong there are plenty of great opportunities there but it's lonely in L.A."
The conversation could have gone on much longer if Marina hadn't gotten a call asking if she could cover for a co worker who'd just called in sick. She agreed and looked almost apologetic as she sat down again.
"I'm really sorry about all this, I feel like I could tell you everything," she looked at her portfolio, "well almost everything," she smiled.
