Characters around Town

 
These are a bunch of small character profiles inspired by people around San Francisco. You never know when or where they might pop up. 

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Her short bangs and brown-black hair pulled into braided pigtails made each wrinkle and line smooth as she smiled at me from the cashier. Her brown eyes twinkled a karmic recognition of which we were both unaware. The black inked roses searched her backpack with care and urgency trying to find that notebook containing secrets and stories about to be typed. She sat and began with loose wrists.

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The tourists speaking German sit in the alcove eating their bagels and licking cream cheese off their fingers as they smile for flash photography.

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He looked exactly like Santino from Project Runway although it wasn't him because he exchanged pleasantries with the barista in a style devoid of ego. And his prayer beads weren't fashionable.

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His Russel Brand hair matched his girlfriend's Amy Winehouse bun although her hair was bleach blond. They seemed a perfect pair including studs on jackets and boots. Obviously, as they stumbled and sat on wet chairs outside, they were recovering from the previous evening. It must've been fun. Their backwards glances oozed both headache and debauchery.

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The green, blue, and black plaid golf cap with a black yard pom pom squarely on top didn't match her black t-shirt with neon lime and turquoise print. Such things shouldn't be let out of closets let alone homes. She at least made up for her horrible hipster attire with black plastic almost jellies with cut out skulls at the toes. They led her departure.

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Those too tight charcoal gray pants looked more likely to be found at a yoga studio than on a professional woman with her Kate Spade bag, blond wet hair, and periwinkle pashmina getting a cup of coffee before her downtown job. Let's hope her colleagues don't point out her camel toe.

Friends, Lovers, Fiances, Enemies, Fiances, and Then...

She was wrapped in a towel and freshly showered when I first met her. I was unexpected and met with a nervous giggle that escaped pursed lips. My grandparents were there helping carry luggage as I coughed green and and ran to throw up. She excused herself as we made our way to my new bedroom. The sagging mattress tossed on an industrial metal frame was one of two beds in the large wooden room. It was to be mine although not quite yet.

She reemerged clothed, and my grandparents asked her for a hotel room and a hospital. We departed with a "Thank-you" towards Lombard Street.

I returned a few days later feeling slightly less sick and more consciously aware of the screaming and chair throwing. She wasn't there to greet me. Instead, I was welcomed dryly by the director from his first floor office. His dog yapping should have been a warning cry; I should have heard its pain and story. But my headache made intuition impossible, so I stayed.

Eight months of screams, bites, feces, transformations, trauma, and love occurred. It was abusive and kept me contained fearful of quiet and stillness. I also gained a close, close friend as only abuse and trauma can create: the woman in the towel.

We both stopped working at the same time and became roommates. Then, we became lovers. It was unexpected, familiar, and beautiful. It was also cyclically unhealthy.

After six plus years of being friends, lovers, fiances, enemies, and fiances again, we ended it. She ended it. I accepted it.

For all its abusive start, cyclical middle, and rocky finish, she showed me love. It prepared us for what was next. For her, grad school and a job in economic development. For me, falling in love all over again.

This time I learned: cruising dark alleys is no more riskier than meeting in a group home.