Our dinner
Late is sinfully good. Ettore takes me to a little surfer-style restaurant on Highway 1 a little north of Santa Monica. Despite the busy Saturday night, when the hostess sees Ettore, she greets him by name and takes us to a private table on the patio overlooking the water. The crashing waves serve as soft background music for our night.
—Do you come here a lot? — I ask ironically. — Or do you just use the fact that the hostess is in love with you to get a table?
He gives me a heart-stopping smile. — Rachel is a sweet girl. Her father owns the place. He has a ladder to the roof. Sometimes he and I go over there and drink a few beers. We talk about everyday things. I escape the madness. — He leans over and touches the tip of my nose with his finger. — I hope this is okay? - he
