The cure for what ails you is at the bar a block from your apartment door. It’s busy for 9:45 on a Sunday night. They say sit wherever you like.
A tucked away back patio with wooden benches and hanging vines. A glass pitcher of water sweats on the table. You order something unpronounceable with grapefruit and lime, and a thickly piled burrata bruschetta. You read by candlelight. A couple is speaking french two tables away. You put your feet up. You sip your drink. You pay your cheque. You walk home just as it starts to rain and your street is momentarily illuminated with a flash of lightning.
The cure for what ails you is a moving target. Or there is no cure. Only sleep and what happens in between.
Profound graffiti spotted on Market Street.
(San Francisco, CA)