San Francisco, June 10th to 16th, 2010

Crying when I met you

The orange glow of the unfettered Californian sun, from its low perch near the horizon still above the san franciscan rowhouses, basked all the men and women on the streets of San Francisco as I strode up the incline in the Castro, the cold wind that I remember always and well caressing, brushing, whipping us.

He was dressed in a solid black T-shirt and chequered dark reddish-on-white shorts, and was walking brisking down the incline in the cold evening with his small dog as I passed him. He was as tall as Dan and had the same dark eyes and fine features, while his build, haircut and the shape of his fine head resembled that of the young ironman in Frederick. He stopped outside the trendy Mexican grill while his friend, or so I thought, was inside. I walked by him again, on purpose. Did he have the same pensive look as the one Dan sported during that time in Purdue?

Later, as I sat on the streetcar trundling its way up the San Franciscan thoroughfare, the chilling wind blowing in my face, I dreamed myself asking him, telling him, that he resembled a friend of mine, and that I can't get you out of my mind, tell me your name. People, my friend and travel companion, I did not notice as dreamy San Francisco flashed by the windows. I imagined and fantasized his life in San Francisco, and I dreamed my life in San Francisco, and behind those wet eyes, I dreamed.