33-Stanyan, Mission to Haight

I remember riding the bus with you one hot January night. You were sick and sweating, swinging your feet like a child.

A woman with tangled hair asked you where Haight was. Her hemp necklace heavy with beads, her hands grabbing each other. She told you that she’d been on the bus for a long long time, that she didn’t want to miss her stop, that she had friends. Friends for her waiting at Haight.

You sighed and closed your eyes, rested your head on the window. You were like the beach we’d just left—all shifting yellow sand.

“It’s in a little bit,” I said. “That red light up there will say Haight. Hey, we’re getting off at Haight. Just look for me.”

“But this is the right bus?” she asked. Her eyes wide. Her mouth tight.

“Yes.” I closed my eyes, put my arm around you. “This is the right bus.”

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