The San Franciscan

The air inside the car is heavy and warm. The windshield defroster fights off condensation while the wipers swipe at the interminable downpour. Kayla leans forward in the passenger seat with hands clasped tightly...

I first spotted them on a warm, early spring day while I was eating a sandwich on a veranda of a building in the Financial District. She was wearing an off-white dress that billowed in the wind. She pawed at him and fed him grape tomatoes and wiped olive oil from his chin. He wore a pair of tortoiseshell Ray Bans, three days of stubble, a white polo, and rolled up olive khakis that revealed the tip of a dagger tattoo on his right ankle. His loafers looked comfortable. I took a napkin to my mouth and put on my polarized sunglasses from Walgreens. I’d been in the habit of sketching things that caught my eye at lunch and I opened my small sketch book.