s h e w h o t o s s e s g r e n a d e s

It was an aimless Sunday. You awoke in the afternoon from a long nap. At midnight, you locked yourself outside of the apartment building. It was a calm evening in the Lower Haight until the breeze suddenly made it intolerable. Only two hours on the street before you decided to seek shelter. There is only one place nearby which stay open all night. As you walked there, you thought about the paper thin leather jacket you wore, the scarf you left sitting on your sofa, not ever having owned hats or headwear, no extra layers underneath, and the worn soles of your slip-on shoes. It should have been planned. You took a table at the back of the cafe, but the breeze still reached for you through the wide open doors. You ordered a spinach salad, a coffee. You wondered how long you could delay finishing the meal and keep your seat. The wait staff didn't care. You killed hours reading PAPER magazine which you grabbed from a stack by the door. You waited, and waited. Finally you noticed the outside had began to lighten up. You borrowed a pen. They handed you a blue ballpoint. You proceeded to perform the ritual.