“I said, “They’re nice. Me and Tyrel saw them a few months ago in L.A. on Melrose at Debbie Allen’s restaurant.” A jazz sextet was under a chandelier playing Norman Brown-style melodies from a circular stage. A few of the brothers San Diego had to offer were by the door. Most of them were in suits. They held drinks and stopped talking long enough to check out every sister’s backside when she strolled in. Chiquita and I were at a marble table sitting in bar-stool-height seats, lollygagging, addin...g to the mild chatter. Couples were slow dancing; the music and spirits gave the air of old romances being rekindled and new romances in the making. This was the last place I wanted to be. Chiquita said, “Told you it was the bomb.” “I should be at home unpacking.” “You can unpack anytime. Today’s your birthday. You’re the big thirty now.” Tyrel’s birthday is on July the ninth. Day after tomorrow. I said, “Don’t remind me.” “This is much better than being cooped up in an apartment all evening.”MoreLessRead More Read Less
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