Read Online Learning Curve by Michael S. Malone - Free Book Online Page B

the eTernity offices.
    Alison rushed in from the foggy San Francisco night to find Dale Corman, her live-in boyfriend, already seated and waiting. And fuming.
    â€œI’m sorry,” Alison said automatically.
    â€œNot important,” said Corman, rubbing his hand over his bearded chin as he always did when he was annoyed. “I’ve already ordered our dinners.”
    â€œWhat did you get for me?” Alison asked as gently as possible.
    â€œDoes it matter?” Corman asked. “It’s not like you’re a foodie or something.”
    â€œNo,” said Alison, “I guess not.”
    â€œI picked out some wine, too,” said Corman. “It’s appropriate for our entrees.”
    â€œGood. Thank you. How was your day?” asked Alison.
    Dale shrugged, his long black hair falling down his cheeks and onto the shoulders of his black Gibson t-shirt. He was always irritated by this question about his day, though Alison asked it every night. “You don’t think I work as hard as you do? Do you have any conception of how difficult it is to write a novel?”
    â€œI didn’t mean it that way, honey.”
    â€œNo. No. Of course not. That’s why it’s always the first thing you ask me. I don’t make you justify what you do all day. Do I?”
    â€œNo you don’t.”
    â€œThat’s right. Sometimes I honestly think that just because you make all the money in this relationship that somehow you are morally superior to me.” Corman’s eyes flared at Alison, which only made him even more attractive in her eyes.
    â€œYou know that’s not so,” she said softly.
    â€œYou’re damn right,” said Corman with triumph. “We each have our roles. And I bring the higher qualities of art to our lives.”
    â€œYes, you do,” said Alison with the sexiest smile she could manage. She was ready to go back to the apartment with him right now.
    A stocky waiter with a bent nose appeared beside them. He said in a gruff voice, “I see the lady has arrived. Shall I serve your dinner now?”
    An hour later, they were standing in the Lucky 13 bar in the Castro, drinking Chimay and shouting over a Tom Waits song with a group of Corman’s friends, all fellow writers. It struck Alison fleetingly that she had no real friends of her own—only workmates and employees, and she knew almost nothing about their personal lives. Instead, she was here, listening to Kevin, 300 pounds stuffed into a black leather coat, leaning on a carved sword cane and expounding on the plot of Robert Lennon’s Mailman. Walter, a 6’3” beanpole in a plaid lumberjack’s shirt, had claimed that whole sections of the book were “insufferably boring,” and now Kevin was arguing that the book’s longeurs were its best parts.
    As usual, Alison listened, smiled, supported her boyfriend, and endured the affectionate condescension of the “real” artists with which she found herself night after night. But this evening—perhaps after the news of the day—she found herself both weary and impatient with Dale and his friends. The loud music and red lights made her head throb. Her lust at dinner was now long gone.
    Finally, when she could take it no more, she squeezed Corman’s arm and half-shouted into his ear. “Okay if we leave early tonight?”
    Dale made a sour face. “Look, I’m having a good time with our friends here. And there’s some things I need to talk with them about. Maybe you ought to just take off without me. I’ll be home soon enough.”
    â€œOkay, but don’t be too late, baby,” Alison said. She fished through her purse, came up with a hundred dollar bill, and slipped it into Corman’s hand. “Save enough for the cab home,” she told him.
    â€œI can handle my own business,” he told her, rolling his eyes at his friends. “Don’t wait up.”