Market Street, from the flat Financial District through the hilly Castro Street neighborhood, flying its distinctive rainbow flags and even farther up, to Twin Peaks, where half of the city could be seen below them. They cut over Seventeenth Street, down through the Haight Ashbury district, where the 1960s hippies had been replaced on the historic sidewalks by thugs and homeless teenagers with mean-looking dogs.
The head shops and pizza parlors of Haight Street gave way to the green swaths of Golden Gate Park. The park had seen better days, probably in the nineteenth century. Its current skeleton crew of gardeners was barely able to keep the jungle at bay in most areas, but it retained a lush beauty that still brought the nature-starved citizens of San Francisco flocking in droves. They passed the Conservatory of Flowers, a beaux arts marvel of architecture that looked like an upside-down ship made of frosted glass. The car turned left at the lawn bowling courts, where elderly ladies and gentlemen dressed in white shorts rolled balls over the manicured grass, and drove toward the ocean.
The park ended at Highway One, and on the other side of the road were Ocean Beach and the Pacific Ocean. Marking each corner of the park at that end was an old windmill. One of them had been restored and one was a complete wreck. As the driver approached the restored one Richard asked Sunni to close her eyes. The car parked, Richard slipped out one door and opened the other one for her. As she emerged from the car Sunni couldn’t suppress a gasp of astonishment.
On the green lawn in front of the windmill, flanked by hundreds of red, purple, and white impatiens, was a gazebo that had been newly erected for the occasion of their picnic. Inside was a table covered with a white cloth, laid with china and crystal for two. A uniformed waiter stood behind one chair, holding a bottle of champagne.
“Richard, I don’t know what to say. This is beautiful.” Sunni was whispering, although she didn’t know why.
“I’m glad you like it.” Richard held out an arm and Sunni slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. He escorted her to the gazebo, where the waiter handed each of them a glass of champagne. Richard lifted his in a toast.
“To new beginnings,” he said.
Sunni blushed and looked away, unable to counter the boldness in his gaze.
They sat on opposite sides of the table and the waiter began serving. The dishes appeared in gourmet profusion: imported cheeses, caviar, melon wrapped in prosciutto, grilled and marinated vegetables, and perfect strawberries dipped in chocolate.
“How did you know these are all my favorite foods?” Sunni asked, topping a tiny triangular piece of toast with a dab of caviar.
Richard turned his champagne flute this way and that, causing the bubbles to float to the top and pop. “You are a woman of refined and delicate tastes,” he said. “So I simply extrapolated from that.”
Two hours later Sunni was lying on her back on a plaid blanket, staring at the shifting patterns of light formed by the branches of the towering eucalyptus tree above her. Richard sat somewhat stiffly at her side with his legs straight out. He had frowned slightly when Sunni found the blanket, but he had followed her gamely. The hulls from the chocolate strawberries lay in a pile next to Sunni’s hand. The waiter was quietly packing the remains of lunch into the back of a van parked unobtrusively across the street. Sunni was feeling comfortably full and just a bit tipsy.
Wisps of fog were starting to drift in from the ocean, bearing the smell of brine. The wind blew Sunni’s black hair over her eyes. Richard leaned over to tuck the hair gently behind her ear.
“Your hair is beautiful,” Richard murmured. “Black as a raven’s wing. It’s rare to see this color occur naturally.”
Their faces were very close together. Sunni looked at Richard’s extraordinarily pale complexion. Normally a person with skin of that
The head shops and pizza parlors of Haight Street gave way to the green swaths of Golden Gate Park. The park had seen better days, probably in the nineteenth century. Its current skeleton crew of gardeners was barely able to keep the jungle at bay in most areas, but it retained a lush beauty that still brought the nature-starved citizens of San Francisco flocking in droves. They passed the Conservatory of Flowers, a beaux arts marvel of architecture that looked like an upside-down ship made of frosted glass. The car turned left at the lawn bowling courts, where elderly ladies and gentlemen dressed in white shorts rolled balls over the manicured grass, and drove toward the ocean.
The park ended at Highway One, and on the other side of the road were Ocean Beach and the Pacific Ocean. Marking each corner of the park at that end was an old windmill. One of them had been restored and one was a complete wreck. As the driver approached the restored one Richard asked Sunni to close her eyes. The car parked, Richard slipped out one door and opened the other one for her. As she emerged from the car Sunni couldn’t suppress a gasp of astonishment.
On the green lawn in front of the windmill, flanked by hundreds of red, purple, and white impatiens, was a gazebo that had been newly erected for the occasion of their picnic. Inside was a table covered with a white cloth, laid with china and crystal for two. A uniformed waiter stood behind one chair, holding a bottle of champagne.
“Richard, I don’t know what to say. This is beautiful.” Sunni was whispering, although she didn’t know why.
“I’m glad you like it.” Richard held out an arm and Sunni slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. He escorted her to the gazebo, where the waiter handed each of them a glass of champagne. Richard lifted his in a toast.
“To new beginnings,” he said.
Sunni blushed and looked away, unable to counter the boldness in his gaze.
They sat on opposite sides of the table and the waiter began serving. The dishes appeared in gourmet profusion: imported cheeses, caviar, melon wrapped in prosciutto, grilled and marinated vegetables, and perfect strawberries dipped in chocolate.
“How did you know these are all my favorite foods?” Sunni asked, topping a tiny triangular piece of toast with a dab of caviar.
Richard turned his champagne flute this way and that, causing the bubbles to float to the top and pop. “You are a woman of refined and delicate tastes,” he said. “So I simply extrapolated from that.”
Two hours later Sunni was lying on her back on a plaid blanket, staring at the shifting patterns of light formed by the branches of the towering eucalyptus tree above her. Richard sat somewhat stiffly at her side with his legs straight out. He had frowned slightly when Sunni found the blanket, but he had followed her gamely. The hulls from the chocolate strawberries lay in a pile next to Sunni’s hand. The waiter was quietly packing the remains of lunch into the back of a van parked unobtrusively across the street. Sunni was feeling comfortably full and just a bit tipsy.
Wisps of fog were starting to drift in from the ocean, bearing the smell of brine. The wind blew Sunni’s black hair over her eyes. Richard leaned over to tuck the hair gently behind her ear.
“Your hair is beautiful,” Richard murmured. “Black as a raven’s wing. It’s rare to see this color occur naturally.”
Their faces were very close together. Sunni looked at Richard’s extraordinarily pale complexion. Normally a person with skin of that
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