That evening after rehearsal, I saw her loading her bass into her car and stopped to say hello.
“Good rehearsal,” I said.
“Yes, it was,” she replied. “But I’ll never get the Shamenski right. I think you have to be ten feet tall to play it right.”
“Yes, we’re very busy during that one, too. It’s very intricate.”
“Say, are you hungry?” she asked. “I’m famished. Want to go get something to eat?”
“Sure,” I replied. “I’m a little hungry, too.”
Whoa! Wait a minute. Weren’t we here in my fantasy? I still couldn’t tell her I was really hungry for her.
“Where?”
“Do you like Italian?” she asked.
Oh, my God! I thought. This can’t be a re-run.
“Yeah, sure.”
“Have you been to Gino’s downtown right off Stevens Street?”
I took a deep breath.
No, this wasn’t a re-run.
“I’ve been there a coup
