We were supposed to be at the restaurant at 7:30, but Sylvia, Lane, and
rolled up to the Plex around 8 to pick me up. I had been watching wheel of fortune and reading Elizabeth Cady Stanton, killing time and not studying. Eugene
I had asked Sylvia if she wanted to go out to eat Thursday night, told her I needed some curry in my blood and have you heard of the great Indian place on magazine street? She more than agreed, needed some korma therapy, but said she had to break a date with
Sylvia, Eugene and I all have something in common, lack of wheels. Transportation. Vehicle handicapped. I had told her I would meet the two of them at the restaurant by scooter, my Babette. But nights in
Its like 1950s bohemia, the way we covet the cars.
Lane is blond and curly and has a light southern accent that makes me feel comfortable. I had met him at the barristers ball, I know, but I don’t remember a word I said to him because I had been friends with gin that night, trying to get the most of my $200 dress.
We went to Indian curry and split dishes and talked about the dems taking the house and senate, pedagogy and small southern towns. Weekends. Clubs. Life in excruciating general.
Lane is from
Lane said he has some friends that I could meet. I ask him if they speak a second language. I don’t usually sleep with guys that speak only one language. He asks if this has any connection to me asking him earlier if he remembers any Italian from his year in
It’s a good night.