I walked down the hill to the bodega on the corner of Haight and Market as the rice was cooking.
I grabbed a bag of Pringles and a pack of Marlboros. The cashier and a heavyset man was in the back of the store, gesturing at the surveillance camera. When they walked to the counter, the technician glanced over and smiled at me. His surgery was impeccable, but it's still strange to see perfect breasts pushing taut against a man's blouse. With no makeup, his lined face and Adam's apple dared me to confront their rude contrast.
There was an old black lady at the counter with me, but I forgot what we talked about.
I paid and walked out to light my cigarette. A guy in a wifebeater and a mullet the color of mustard asked for a light. Another guy leaned against the shadows of the bodega's wall. I wouldn't have seen him there, since the fog was coming down strong, except as I walked by, he muttered just loud enough "Fuck off, brother."
It was one of those nights, where I felt half awake and not ready for the week to come.