I moved to San Francisco a year ago, partially because I got tired of reporting on galleries in New York, and partially because I got tired of New York in general. The West Coast was warmer, although there was something vaguely dreadful about San Francisco in the sense that I couldn’t vibe with anyone in any specific way.

I spent hours alone in my apartment drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes and writing. In the evening I drank whiskey to numb myself. Sometimes I did it in a bar late at night. Usually I was alone.

A local magazine sent me on an assignment to a new gallery that had just opened up around the corner from where I lived. The owner of the gallery, Cassandra Williams, was a wealthy inheritor whose parents were in local real estate—mostly buildings.

I found a picture of her online. She had curly red hair, looked to be in her mid-thirties. Nice blue eyes. Intelligent looking.

——

I met up with Steve, the photographer. He was already waiting for me outside my building.

“I’m hoping this is a short one,” I said.

“Ah, really? You don’t think Cassandra will have much to say?” 

“Is everyone in this town just kissing her ass because of her money?”

“Sure. People don’t do the same thing in New York?”

“Oh, it’s even worse there. Why do you think I left?”

Steve and I arrived at the gallery. They already knew who we were when we entered. They were expecting us. 

They led us to a room in the back where Cassandra was already sitting at a table alone on the phone. The moment she saw us, she told whoever she was talking to that she had to go.

“Greetings,” she said. “Weekly Art SF in the house!”

I set down my tape recorder on the table and took out my pencil and notebook.

“Oh, Carl,” said Cassandra. “I went ahead and checked some of the work you did in New York before I scheduled this interview.”

“Oh yeah?” 

“Just wanted to know who I was dealing with.”

“Nobody special.”

“And I checked out your background. Art history major, writing minor at Princeton. Impressive.”

“I’ve been doing this for thirteen years. Where I went to school doesn’t matter to me anymore.”

“Do you still like it?” 

“What?”

“Your job.”

“Let me ask the questions.”

I turned on my tape recorder. Cassandra lit her cigarette and offered me one. I took it. As we got settled in, her assistant brought us two cappuccinos.

“How is it?” she asked. “Exquisite? Everyone tells me the cappuccino is exquisite.”

“Yeah, it’s good,” I said.

I asked about her life, her childhood, where she grew up, her parents, what she liked to do outside of her job. Before we knew it, an hour had passed. We went fifteen minutes over, but she didn’t mind. She shook my hand after the interview. Steve took a few pictures of her for the magazine before we left.

——

When I got home, I got a call from an unknown number.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Carl.”

“Cassandra?” 

“I hope this doesn’t come as sudden, but I was wondering if you would like to have dinner with me this weekend.”

“Sure.”

“Do you like French food?”

——

I met Cassandra at a French restaurant about six blocks from where I lived. The waiter took me to the table where she was already waiting for me. She had on a wide brim floppy hat and was dressed all in black.

“Good evening,” she said.

I sat down. Cassandra ordered a glass of wine.

“I hope this wasn’t sudden,” she said.

“No.”

“Tell me about yourself. When was your last relationship?”

“I’m divorced.”

“Is that why you left New York?”

“Partially.”

The waiter opened the bottle of wine and poured the glasses.

“You know, I almost got married,” she said. “Would’ve been a tragedy.”

“Yeah.”

“What do you want out of life, Carl? Do you want to stay in San Francisco?”

“I don’t mind reporting about art. And art people. I mean, I liked art in college. It was interesting to study. Well, I mean, I was more into the Renaissance painters. Yeah, I think they were my favorites. So I always imagined myself sort of being in that world. But, uh, you know… Thirteen years later, you don’t really know if you care about it as much, I guess. I don’t know what other kind of writing I’d do, though. I mean sports journalism, maybe. But I’m not sure it’s my thing.”

Her lipstick was bright red. She pouted her lips. She gazed at me with her piercing blue eyes.

“But yeah,” I continued. “I don’t know if I want to stay in San Francisco, necessarily. I know I don’t want to go back to New York, that’s for sure.”

“Interesting.”

We ordered our food. Cassandra asked for the snails. I ordered the beef stew.

“You’re a very good writer,” she said. “People in the art world respect you.”

“Do they?”

“You don’t think that they do?”

“I don’t think about what people think of my writing.”

“You don’t think you’re good?”

“I don’t read my own work.”

“You don’t?”

“No.”

Our food arrived. Cassandra slurped her snails. I chewed on my beef stew.

“This is good,” I said.

“Yeah, the food here is amazing,” said Cassandra.

“I haven’t been on a date in a long time.”

“You’re doing great.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The check arrived.

“I got it,” she said. “You want to do this again sometime?” 

——

We left the restaurant and smoked outside. When I doused my cigarette, Cassandra pressed her body against mine and kissed me passionately.

“Good night,” she said, and walked away.