THE MIND THAT WANDERS UPON WAKING

Last night I could see the fog blowing in from my office windows. When I went outside to smoke, the horns out on the Bay could even be heard in the financial district. The street was mostly empty, though occasionally a vehicle would sail by on its way back to the bridge.
Whisps and trails of moisture softened the upper edges of the highrise buildings.
The office is empty on weekends; yesterday I was the only one there.
High up, I looked out over vanishing downtown canyons.
By the time I left the sky was darkest purple.

Everything could be much more enjoyable with a nice other person around. Eating, smoking, reading, even just puttering about.  A warm hand, a kind eye, and each finding comfort in the other’s presence.
Like salt, like sugar, like spices; warmth, whispers, fragrance and fresh air.
I shall imagine a woman who quietly curls up with a crisp juicy apple and a book, and just enjoys my company. After devouring several chapters she puts the volume down and drifts off, dreaming of hedgehogs and weasels in a forest.  The sporadic sound of clacking from my keyboard as I research things on the web makes a metronome for her sleeping thoughts.

Later, we walk homewards together through the dark grey city. At the top of Nob Hill waterdroplets pearl on her bangs, and glint in light from the glowing orbs.
Streetlamps and the ghostly breeze-touch are both made velvet by the moisture.
In front of her apartment she thanks me for the lovely apples.
The door clicks closed. She is home.

I wander back to my place, still strangely warm.


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