Aaron stood in the poop park at the corner of Twin Peaks and Corbett, looking out to the Golden Gate Bridge. A wrinkled old rail of a woman walked by with her dog to poop him, an equally rail thin greyhound. She puffed on a joint and Aaron half expected the dog to take a drag. She wore a pea jacket and red beret and had flood pants on – Aaron saw her sticks of legs underneath.
“Lovely morning,” Aaron said, “you can see the bridge today. Looks like it’ll be a clear day.”
“Who the hell cares? World’s gonna end anyway.” She took a drag on her joint. “Want some?”
One of them – she should be down at Haight Street. People here were more likely to commute down the peninsula in their Audis with double lattes and NPR.
“Not this hour of the day. I had a late night of it, on my way home.”
“One of those. Male or female?”
“I think she was a woman, but it was dark, so I’m not sure.”
No comments:
Post a Comment