Free Fridays at Enrico's by Don Carpenter Page A

judge of material.”
    â€œI’d love to read some of your poetry,” he remembered to say. “I’ll take you home, if you like, and on the way we can stop at my place and pick up the story.” She agreed and they drained their glasses and went out of the tavern into a wet cold night. They drove the few blocks to his apartment in his little yellow MG, his pride and joy, and she was properly appreciative. “What a cute little car! I can’t get over how cute it is!”
    â€œWould you like to come up for a minute, get warm?” he asked as he parked outside the building.
    â€œI could wait right here,” she said. “Will you be long?”
    â€œWell, I’m not exactly sure where the story is.”
    He helped her out of the car. Her hand was warm and dry. Which meant she wasn’t at all nervous. A good sign, because Dick had every intention of making a pass. He was getting excited. He loved the chase. He followed her up the dark stairs not touching her. He did not want to make any mistakes now, no stupid moves. You had to herd them carefully into place, not spook them, then let the natural consequences of proximity do their work.
    â€œI love your apartment,” she said, when he turned on the light. “This is a real writer’s pad.”
    â€œWould you like to use the bathroom?” he asked politely. “I’ll start looking for that story.” She went into his bathroom, which he kept neat for just such occasions, and he looked into his refrigerator. One quart of beer. He hoped it would be enough. “Would you like a glass of beer?” he called out.
    â€œDo you have any coffee?” she asked through the door.
    â€œGood, I’d rather have coffee too,” he said, to put them both on the same side. He started boiling water, got out two cups and saucers, and spooned a heaping amount of Folger’s Instant into each cup. He wondered about all those famous poets she claimed to know. And Kerouac. She talked about Kerouac as if she had lived with him. He wondered what she was doing in Portland. Of course a lot of the Beat movement came out of Reed College, but that was all over with.
    She came out of the bathroom and stood in the middle of the apartment,her hands at the back of her neck, lifting her silky black hair. “I’ve been thinking about wearing my hair up,” she said. “What do you think?”
    â€œI think you’re the most beautiful woman in Portland.”
    She laughed. “No, really. Up or down.”
    â€œI like both.” He moved toward her and she did not tense up but smiled shyly and lowered her eyes, raising them again as their lips touched. He didn’t push it, just a nice gentle kiss, but as he was about to pull away he felt her hand on his cheek. That was the sign he’d been waiting for. He put his tongue into her mouth and she put her arms around him and pressed her pelvis into his, causing his penis to begin swelling immediately.
    â€œOh, you feel good,” she said.
    It is so great being an adult, he thought, as they easily and happily went to bed. But while he might have gotten into bed with Linda McNeill feeling adult, by morning, after hours of lovemaking, he felt like a child. A happy child. The sex exceeded anything Dick had experienced, and Dick had been a ski instructor in Aspen, Colorado, and considered himself fairly sophisticated. But this girl was something else. It wasn’t the moves. He knew the moves. It was the passion, the spirit. All he could think of was the Kama Sutra, the Thread of Passion. She had lazily, sensually, humorously, lovingly, joyfully wrapped him in the silk threads of her passion, and made of him a cocoon.

14.
    Dick Dubonet’s father had been a lawyer with a small personal practice. He died of a heart attack when Dick was seventeen, leaving trust funds for Dick and his mother. Dick’s became available to him on his twenty-first birthday,