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March 16,
2001
You don’t go
to every party thinking tonight’s the night.
Okay, maybe I used to think that way, but since I hadn’t met
the One in four years of going to parties, I stopped thinking that a
long time ago. Okay,
maybe just last month. Now
I’m just going hoping there will be some nice guys to look at (they
will ignore me as usual), hoping there will be much younger, hopelessly
drunk girls that will make idiots out of themselves and make me feel
superior, and maybe hear a witty line or two that will remind me there
are still some people in L.A. with a sense of humor.
It's a beach
house in Venice, and believe it or not, it is on the beach.
They've got a bonfire on the beach.
And the oddest storm has blown up.
No rain, oppressively hot, and the skies lighting up every two
minutes with faraway forks of lightning.
The wind picks up, blows my hair around in a way I hope is
alluring. I love watching
storms. Especially in L.A.
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You could see a
herd of elephants going down Wilshire easier than a thunderstorm.
Everytime the lightning hits everybody looks up, oohing as
electric white light lights their faces.
Like it’s a special effect.
Ashley’s busy chatting up an amiable Aussie and I’m busy
watching the storm, smiling at their conversation like I’m interested.
There goes another fork, everyone goes Ooooooh all at once, and I
see him.
No, it just
can’t happen like this. I
can’t catch my first glimpse of someone like this.
It’s too cliche. The
thunder rumbles as he approaches the bonfire.
He is so good looking he makes the earth tremble.
Yeah right. But he
definitely is a babe, and so I figure I have about three seconds worth
of good gawking time before he notices me, and turns away, horrified
that a pitiful nobody like me is staring at him.
Dark hair, dark
eyes. Small smile, rumpled
jeans, black shirt. Oh my God, he is heaven.
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