On the corner of Height and Central was a grocery store. We shopped at grocery stores on corners in the City. Supermarkets took up space and space was a rare commodity. So the tiny markets on corners served our needs and if the market didn’t have it we didn’t need it. The market was where I bought cigarettes and bread. It was where I bought beer and ice cream. And milk and postcards and cans of beef ravioli. We bought Raman noodles and napkins, toothpaste, toilet paper, and condoms. It was where I would walk past the rack of dirty magazines pretending I didn’t notice them. It was where I bought the bottle of wine we drank when I told you I was leaving, the one that stained the carpet when you dropped it.

The air is chill when I leave the Wharf, that beautiful San Francisco chill that is warm and moist and sticks to you, energizes your steps. And the air is filled with the smell of saltwater and seaweed and chowder and sourdough. It smells of decay, it smells of life. And in the air hang sounds, seagulls crying and forced laughter and tired children and the muffled conversations of people pretending to be lovers.

I walk past a crowd watching a man paint a fantasy landscape with aerosol cans to a techno beat. They applaud when he is done. There is a man who claims to be a magician begging people to watch him. He has a top hat and a deck of cards. People pass him by. And there is a homeless man asleep on a park bench in a sitting position, a long stream of spittle hangs from the corner of his mouth. Another man in a suit stops to take a picture of him.

All around me is the day ending and transitioning into night. From the clubs music plays, evening cruises on the Bay begin to board. The dinner rush in the restaurants begins as the t-shirt and trinket shops call out last minute deals before the doors lock. I think of all the places I could go. I could revisit the old haunts, relive the old days. I wonder if you are out there, out in the City.

I imagine walking into a restaurant, that old sushi place we liked on Divisadero maybe, and you would be there sitting at the bar drinking Saki from a box. As I walk by you would touch my arm lightly and say my name in a quiet, astonished sort of way. Is it really you? You would say. What are the odds? I would say. And we would hug and reminisce and remember. I think I should go out then, into the City to find you. Instead, I go back to my hotel. I don’t know my way around anymore. In truth, I don’t belong here anymore. I am a tourist now.

The wine you dropped was red; a table wine with an Italian name, a blend. You drank it from a water glass filled nearly to the top. You held it to your lips without drinking as I told you I wanted to move out. When the glass fell to the floor I reacted instinctively grabbing napkins and trying to blot it up. It’s okay, it’s okay, I said, I can fix it. I can make it right. And then you said please. Please stay, you said. And I did.

I stayed because I loved the sound of your voice and the way that you smelled and the way that your skin felt beneath my fingers. I stayed because you asked me to and because I said I would love you forever. We pretended that night never happened. We pretended I never said that I wanted to leave. We pretended that everything was the same as it always had been. The only thing that was different was the dark, red stain on the carpet.

It was never the same of course. Pretend as we did it was never the same. Till eventually, one day you sat me down with a bottle of wine and told me that you were leaving. Distant, you said, I was distant. Not the same. You said you would always remember me. I promised I would do the same. I don’t remember the day you left.

I am sitting in my hotel room looking out the window onto the City at night. The buildings are bathed in a dull, blue light with occasional splashes of yellows and reds. The fog continues to roll in wrapping around everything and hiding it from view. I struggle for a while to make out details in the distance. I know that if I sit here long enough the fog will clear. But I am tired; I find it hard to wait.

Originally published Oct 3, 2013