October Vignette

There I was in the lower lounge of ACT’s elegant Geary Theater, surrounded by well-dressed San Franciscans, sipping cocktails and nibbling on sweets, waiting for the curtain on a new David Mamet play. At one little round table a woman sat with a cool flute of champagne, her hair coiffed up with a sleek barrette, her petite feet clad in soft leather high heels, crossed at the ankle, her mid-length black skirt clinging gracefully to her lap. She was about 60, slim and small. She was intent on her hand, occasionally stroking the face of her iPhone, studying its portents. As I watched, her face broke into a smile and she lifted her right arm high above her head, hand in a fist. “Yes!” she cried, still gazing into her palm. The Yankees had scored.