I was at dinner in Los Feliz recently trying to encourage a couple I’ve been friends with for more than 20 years to come see my boyfriend’s band play the following weekend. “It’s so fun,” I said. “It’s at a bar in the Valley, but Luis gives it the same energy as if he’s playing the Forum.
Plus, it’s a Friday night. You can sleep in on Saturday.” They nodded their heads in consideration, and then the husband asked a perfectly reasonable question.
“What time does he start?” “Around 9,” I said. “ Ish .” Their faces lighted up and their eyes got wide as if I had just delivered the funniest punchline they’d ever heard.
“Nine o’clock?!” the wife asked. “At night?” “Well,” I admitted, “9:15. The latest 9:30.
” Her husband laughed and said, “We’re usually in bed by then.” The wife added, “But if he ever plays a daytime gig, we’d love to come.” I’ve had the same conversation with a variety of friends for years, and they usually end the same way.
The truth is, I get it. Because on the nights that my blues-playing, guitar-slinging boyfriend doesn’t have a gig, we’re usually in bed by 9:30 too. Luis and I met when we were in our 40s.
He was my daughter’s guitar teacher, although taking her to her lessons fell under the jurisdiction of my late husband, Joel. Luis and I had met only a handful of times. Although I found him attractive, we were not on each other’s radars until I was nearly a year into my widowhood.
A fr.