Puccini’s

(From yesterday, Friday morning, when I was writing w/out wireless)

My favorite elderly man is sitting behind me again. He was here longer than I was on my last visit, and I was here for 3+ hours. He just wandered out the door on his cane, moving slowly down Columbus in his suit and newsboy hat. He’s pausing outside the front door to light a cigarette. There are two women sitting across the café from me. Dark red hair in casual updos, 40+, but with gracefully aged faces, smart looking casual suits. They look like sisters that have lived in this neighborhood forever, whose parents left them wise real estate investments and leisurely breakfast habits. I love them. I want to be them. I need to start getting up at the butt crack of dawn and writing with Rach.

The gypsy is here today as well. Long, dark hair, wavy, tied back in a ponytail. Thigh-length black leather jacket, with big silver pins of knives and crossed axes and unrecognizable crests and medals. A slew of silver necklaces, a huge jingly belt with an even huger buckle. Golf ball-sized rings, and little round wire reading glasses. A red scarf around his neck. A walking stick, another stick length item wrapped in red fabric and bright ribbons. Leather pants. And medieval boots. I wouldn’t have felt the need to write about him: although he is a good looking San Franciscan, he’s not uncommon. But he popped up to open the door for an elderly North Beach local, in slacks, sweater, and fedora. They chatted for a bit, before the newcomer had to say hi to another local. Now the gypsy’s outside, talking to my favorite old man in the newsboy hat. He looks like Anton LaVey’s acolyte, and he’s chatting up Katy’s republican grandfather. Love it.

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