Scuffling along the sidewalk, trying to make it to Green Apple Books before the rain begins. Weeks, months, years, since it rained last. Clouds the judgment, makes it seem it’ll never rain again.
Drip. Drip. Drop. Should have brought an umbrella. Pavement melts, transforms from grimy, greasy, gray to glistening charcoal.
Ducking inside, Recalling wetter days, walking, laughing, arguing about everything from the price of rice in Chinatown to how long it would take to read all the books in the store.
Clutching books, hurrying back outside, gladly relinquishing the San Francisco of sizzling sunshine to the tourists at the Wharf, trying to recapture the spirit of the real San Francisco: mist, drizzle, fog; dreariness, depression, dreams, before it slips along the sidewalk, slides off the curb and slithers down the nearest drain, again.
