Friday, March 27, 2009
John and I were getting ready to leave for dinner. He put on his jacket and gathering the material in his fist pulled the jacket away from his stomach. "The jacket's too big, isn't it?" he asked. "It is, but not much," I said. Before we finally left our condo, John had put on and taken off his jacket a number of times, finally deciding to wear it. We reached the restaurant on the quiet end of Lincoln Road just west of Alton and found a table outside under the heater going full blast. If the temperature drops to seventy-five degrees in South Beach, the heaters go on. Two men chatted at the table near us; when the waiter asked to take their order, one of the men said they were waiting for a friend. John and I chewed on the delicious bread. The friend arrived. He wore spike heels, pegged pants, and a tank top with spaghetti straps. He was in marvelous shape; his arms were muscular but not too bulked up. His black hair was wound in an enormous coil on top of his head, and there was still plenty of hair to spare: a thick lock hung over his shoulder. I took all of this in quickly. No one was paying any attention to him. And he wasn't paying much attention to himself; he was not posing. I waited for John to put down his glass. "And you were worried about your jacket!" I said.