We cruised down Market Street and made our way up to Twin Peaks. As soon as Sandy was out of the car, gazing down at the lights below, the child in her returned.
"Come on slowcoach," echoed through the still light air as I slammed the car door shut. "Wow, look at that! All those lights! All those people! All that traffic! After the peace and quiet of Yosemite, it's like a seething army of ants: humanity en masse. Come here and give me a cuddle, stand behind me and wrap your arms round me!"
I snuggled up behind her and folded my arms around her, enveloping her body, resting my cheek on her hair. She murmured an approving, "Mmm."
"What's that down there? The long road with all those tiny cars, headlights blazing, crawling along it?"
"Oh, I think that's Market Street, sure it is. You know, the road we just drove along. Somewhere, about three-quarters of the way up it and just off to the right is our hotel."
"Mmm," she paused and sighed. "Down there are thousands of people. Some going home from work. Others at home doing mundane things — cooking, cleaning and all that. Some making love. Somewhere down there someone is probably being murdered." She shuddered at the thought. "People doing everything imaginable and, from here, so tiny, so insignificant. It looks huge but the whole city is nothing more than a speck on the globe. Weird!"
"Yep." My tone was indifferent and matter of fact: what she had said was right. "You're going off into what you call your 'soppy bitch' mode again, Sandy. Going all deep and philosophical on me again."
She didn't take offence. "Well, I told you I f-e-e-l, didn't I? That underneath the whore in me there is a heart and mind. I'm not blonde and I'm not dumb."
"You sure ain't blonde," I joked. "Your collar matches your cuffs, seen 'em both!"
Sandy must have been lost in her thoughts because I was sure she knew what I meant but she said, "What?"
"Hair on your head matches the hair in your groin," I quipped summarily. "Supposed to be the test of a true blonde, isn't it? Collar and cuffs match unless like Jean Harlow or Marilyn Monroe the cuff is bleached to match the collar."
Her elbow dug into my ribs. "I knew what you meant, silly! Like I said, I'm not blonde or dumb! I was thinking. You know, using that stuff in my head between my ears! You go back to the car, want to be alone here for a minute. OK?"
I sat in the car gazing at the silhouette before me that was Sandy — the girl who had entrapped me in Las Vegas and to whom I was the fly in her spider's web albeit I was not sure she realised how deeply she had captivated me. I didn't need to see her face and knew it was peaceful, expressionless except for the slight furrow in her brow betraying whatever thoughts raced through her mind. Almost certainly, they were comparing her talk of God creating the grandeur and peace of Yosemite with the manmade vista, blackness pockmarked with splashes of brilliant light, disappearing into the horizon below her. She turned and ambled slowly back to the car. I flicked the door open for her and she sank into the seat, slamming the door shut. She tossed her head, cascading ebony threads, some glinting, in the half-light and sighed.
"Food, James, chauffeur me to the nearest restaurant, please."
We drove off and found an Italian restaurant. Sandy was very subdued during dinner and spoke little. Her appetite was unaffected as minestrone soup, spaghetti bolognaise, chocolate gateaux, cream, wine, cognac and coffee were demolished with evident enjoyment.
She broke the silence. "Know what?"
I uttered the obvious, "No, not until you tell me, Sandy."
She giggled. "I fancy another cognac and," she paused and looked into my eyes, hers half closed, "A cigar. A biggish one! Pity I haven't got on a dinner jacket, sorry tuxedo here isn't it, crisp white shirt and black bow tie."
I looked over to the waiter who stepped over and looked somewhat bemused when I said, "Another cognac and a largish cigar for the lady, please."
The waiter reappeared armed with the cognac and cigar. He offered it to Sandy who said, "It's OK, thanks. Just cut it, please." That done and the cigar firmly gripped between her teeth, the waiter lit it for her and retreated, seemingly expecting from his slightly anxious look that Sandy would promptly start coughing. She didn't. Her cheeks drew in and the cigar glowed bright red before it was slowly withdrawn from her mouth. She pursed her lips slightly and gently wafted the smoke in my direction before taking a gulp of cognac.
