Sunday March 6, 1983

A gray overcast Sunday afternoon. Been a busy week. Queen Elizabeth was in town and we had a full week of storms.

But Leslie just left.

I’m just sitting on the beanbag chair looking out at The City. Typical of what’s going on: the beanbag chair is developing a hole in a seam, and I had to patch it with duct tape to keep the little white beans from flying out when I sit down.

What’s going on? Where is my head?

All I know is I’m an asshole. Really and truly. But I feel caught by her. She’s trying hard to win me over, and on nights like this — she’s winning.

To clear my head, I keep telling myself, “It’s just sex.”

She knows what she’s doing. Loves sex probably more than I do. Never been anyone like her in bed — except Gina Fratelli.

Maybe there’s a thing about married women, or in her case, divorced women. When they get used to having regular sex and they lose it through divorce, they start going nuts …. just an observation.

But maybe they go crazy because men — and me in particular — are so stupid.

Leslie’s a genuinely a nice person, and that’s what makes this hard. Met her a couple months ago in the ER at St. Mary’s Hospital. She’d gone to St. Anne’s with me, Class of 1964. I knew who she was then, but there was never any attraction.She went to Presentation, then nursing school at USF, then married a guy from my class, Di Falco, right after they both graduated.

He went to USF Law School, and soon they got a house in Novato and had two kids.

But a year and a half ago, his cocaine problem forced him to move out. They divorce. She gets the house. Her younger sister moves in to help care for the kids while Leslie’s working full-time. But she’s on the edge financially because Di Falco is so fucked up with his nose problems; he’s having trouble holding a job, and the support checks are irregular.

Classic 1983 story.