Chapter 15: Carlos
I’m ten minutes late when I get to Sevilla, the Spanish restaurant where I agreed to meet Fremont St. George. The little place, brightly lit, is just beneath the ‘L’ tracks at Fullerton. It’s simple, with Granny Smith apple green walls and dark cherry tables, terrazzo tile on the floor, and a small bar to the right of the door. My train rumbles overhead, and I spy Fremont. He’s already seated at a table in the back corner. He doesn’t see me, and I think how good he looks in a form-fitting clingy orange short-sleeved V-neck that not only contrasts gorgeously with his skin but also shows off his bulging biceps and broad chest. If he’s not on the menu, I’m not sure what I’ll be having.
I watch him sip at a glass of red wine and think that tonight seems to be my lucky nigh
