Smoothie in a pink-rimmed mug pierced by a hot pink straw. Breakfast in a glass and out the door.
Juggled wallet and umbrella and pink berry sludge in the rain while waiting for the right bus to take me away. I was last aboard due to the wrestling of items.
The up and down game of "Is He Old Enough to Give Up my Seat" was played. I lost.
A woman stood stoically in a going out silky, tight skirt. She wore going out makeup, three shades of shadow and slick lips and fake lashes.
A young man with blonde stubble in a NY ballcap in the colors blue and orange. I couldn't tell if he likes the Mets or the Yankees. Probably not both.
The driver screeched at the next stop for us all to move to the back! No one budged. She barked her orders to push back yet again, when riders responded, "No room!"
"I can see room," she said.
"For how many people?," someone shouted back. Not wanting to quibble semantics, she drives onward.
Two women could not get bus window open. They grunted and pushed and pulled, and nothing.
The cupcake place was dark.
A man carried reused manilla envelopes with little strings tied around little discs, a closing tactic I like very much.
Puma, Jack Spade, Timbuk2, Jansport in my face. Bags are big business in San Francisco. They carry your everything.
Relief at 3rd and Market as the suited people climbed off in waves. I sat in wet for the last two block.