"I am coming, yes. And I would like you to explain this in detail if you don't mind."
After all the re-tellings, this one, told as we walked to Potrero Avenue and down to 15th Street, was the easiest. She held my hand and squeezed it often.
We took the stairs up to the Bay Guardian's offices two at a time. My heart was pounding. I got to the reception desk and told the bored girl behind it, "I'm here to see Barbara Stratford. My name is Mr Green."
"I think you mean Mr Brown?"
"Yeah," I said, and blushed. "Mr Brown."
She did something at her computer, then said, "Have a seat. Barbara will be out in a minute. Can I get you anything?"
"Coffee," we both said in unison. Another reason to love Ange: we were addicted to the same drug.
The receptionist -- a pretty latina woman only a few years older than us, dressed in Gap styles so old they were actually kind of hipster-retro -- nodded and stepped out and came back with a couple of cups bearing the newspaper's masthead.
We sipped in silence, watching visitors and reporters come and go. Finally, Barbara came to get us. She was wearing practically the same thing as the night before. It suited her. She quirked an eyebrow at me when she saw that I'd brought a date.
"Hello," I said. "Um, this is --"