A Chechen-like clarity and ferocity.


Joe and Ana are still in SF, freewheeling through the remaining days of their honeymoon. Four nights in a row of hanging out and I practically feel like a normal person again. I like the concept of friendship. I like the feeling of stopping by a friend’s house on my way back from the ocean to drink beer and to watch baseball. I like this idea that friends sometimes hang out in groups larger than two. I’d almost forgotten that once upon a time having fun with other people didn’t require planning weeks ahead.

The ride home from Cole Valley is a series of zigzags and wiggles, all downhill through a maze of SF Victorians. At night, the streets are awake and the city sweeps past me at eight miles per hour. Right. This is how I am supposed to feel. This is where I belong. This is a particular kind of heaven.

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