Castro fog
Castro fog.

Lavender deodorant and some hippie hand lotion. Maybe I’m starting to sweat. Looks like crap outside, but it feels awesome. It might be dark, it might be bright but my eyes don’t have to squint much. I could wear no jacket because it is almost a tad humid. Has to be one that dries without problems because those little needles of fog, after 15 minutes, will team up and make all your clothing soaking wet.
Rosemary scent in my hands, mixed with a little bike grease and a recent paper cut, reach in my bag. They can hold this French bicycle up double-flight of stairs, but cannot hold still to send a text with that cell phone. There it goes, I drop it on the street again. Nothing broke this time. How much coffee did I have today? Lost count, as usual.

These hands maneuver Frenchie through the neighborhoods of this city, and perhaps a mile over that way, where it is sunny. These fog patches are playing hide and seek with the sky. It is a flirting game with the sun. I stop for a second and look this way. I love this weather.

Comes. Goes. Pleases some, confuses most.