“I can tell you about these things.” She said as she leaned in over her cup of coffee. She tapped her cigarette on an ashtray and pursed her lips. The morning sun was shining into the room covering everything with a thin layer of warmth, while outside on the street the Volvo sedan was covered in frost. She went on, shaking her head slowly so that her dangly earrings flashed reflected light across the room, “You’re a good listener. That’s it Eddie. You’re a good listener.” Eddie wasn’t listening. He was trying to identify the birds outside the kitchen window. They looked so busy and gay, flitting their tiny wings about in the morning sun. What was she telling him? She only had three topics so it was easy to guess.




b) John Smith

There’s a No Name at the bar, slumped over the bar menu. It’s after five on a workday and the bar is empty. He is still wearing his bulky vinyl jacket even though the bar is warm. It is dark inside, brown walls, copper bar. The tables are blocks of wood; the chairs are uncomfortable and therefore stylish. Candles make it a romantic. It’s a classy joint. He’s going down the list asking about each drink. The bartender is a young girl, tattooed at the wrist. I like her. She looks up as she helps him; smiles at me when I walk in. We’re in the Tenderloin. San Francisco’s least tender of districts, but very much the loins.




c) Walt Whitman