30 Stockton

I wait for the 30 Stockton.

I miss my sister. I wish she were standing on this street corner with me right now. In a non-working girl sort of way, of course.

I'm headed downtown for lunch with two old high school friends. “Old” is an incorrect way to label Lou and Anh—they’ve both retained their youthful enthusiasm. Anh especially. When she laughs, it’s like diamonds twinkling in sunlight.

A young Italian woman comes up to me and asks how much the bus fare is and where to pay it. She’s with, presumably, her mother and sister. They all have that dark, mysterious Mediterranean look to them, with inky hair that clings to their shoulders.

The bus arrives. I take a seat in the middle.

A car stops next to us. The passenger in the back seat uses a fingernail to scrape at the lamination coating the rear window.

An older woman climbs gingerly on board the bus. The driver greets her warmly, asking her how her wrist is healing. She grimaces and says it’s coming along.

Around me, conversation hums, lively but subdued. Two tourists discuss whether they should get off the bus at Ghirardelli Square, or if they should go to North Beach to have pizza first. A little Chinese boy makes animated gestures as he tells his mother a story in their own language. It’s obvious he’s telling her about a magical pirate ship that sails in the night sky.

I think about lunch. Indian food. Will it be good? It’s hard to find decent Indian food this side of London.

A bus passes in the opposite direction. A man sits alone in the back. He wears a dark suit and crisp white dress shirt. The orange tie around his neck looks like a noose, and he stares out the window like he’s headed for the gallows.

Maybe gallows come to mind because of the Hung Ling Co. storefront and the row of pink roasted ducks dangling by their necks in the window. They look like persecuted prisoners of culinary war. Perhaps I need to liberate one and take it home.

The bus stops. It’s Market Street, and I stand to join the herd filling out the back door. I resist the urge to moo.

Stepping onto the sidewalk, I inhale the city air. It’s a good day.