The city is brown. Taupe and tan, chocolate and coffee. Wet brick and sodden leaves. Occasionally there is a slash of color: tomato-red door, burst of too-green grass in the park, a clear day's pastel blue sky.
Crossing the street is still like walking in a dream. I look the wrong way first. Listening to music is not an option when I can't even get the street-crossing down, so I listen to people instead. A young woman crying to her friend, sobbing, "They're just such a wonderful group of people!" The convenience store clerk giving me a sly smile and "hello, my darling" when I ask for change for the bus.
The city smells like corned beef, like hops, like chicory, like petrichor, like soil and soot. Buses loom so tall they block out the sun at each stop. And the sun is so coy here I keep tabs on her every moment.
The moon is getting jealous. My legs are cramped and my legs are getting jealous. My fingers are jealous of my gloves and my boots are jealous of my knees.
"Thank you very much," says the man as I hold the café door open for him. "Thanks," I say simultaneously, and we are in well-mannered gridlock. I try "cheers" on but it still sounds funny when I say it.
My tongue is jealous of my tongue. So I made it chicken fajitas, and it tasted like San Francisco, only darker and older and everywhere away.