The weekend, stream of consciousness:
Hipster bar in Venice on Friday night, where the girls wear black skirts and black tights and little make up. Stellar parking spot, no line. Fate. Drink of choice in the bar: martinis. My drink of choice: red wine. I met a girl there who owns a printing press from the early 20th century and designs her own prints, yet is afraid of color. She is engaged and refuses to pick colors for her wedding.
Cloudy Saturday morning so my friend and I ditched the bike idea but still headed for the beach. Panting and puffing up the stairs, up and down, up and down, until our legs couldn't stand it any more. Then we went running along the beach. Beautiful and wild and quiet.
Mounds of cleaning and laundry and then Infatuation came over and made me dinner. I drank wine and watched him chop vegetables and sear garlic and pour olive oil on this and that. Delicious. He is the first boy to ever make dinner for me, whole and pure and from scratch.
Today we went on a long walk around Brentwood and stopped for coffee at our favorite shop. We strolled through the farmers market and were disappointed the ponies and goats were gone.
Gamble House in Pasadena this afternoon. It smells of age, of wood. It is supposedly haunted.
Now: work.
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