Exile

I wander slowly through the crowds in Chinatown. I need to find something to immerse myself in, to forget. No bookstore this time, and San Francisco already has more than enough quirky little stores. I’m trying to find inspiration here and then I’ll move on, probably to someplace smaller.

I sigh and fondle an apple in a display. What I really want is someplace like Wellington, which, sadly, I think is unique. The seller is glaring at me so I quickly pay for the fruit and start munching it. Let’s be honest here, the appeal of Wellington is the people, especially one certain person, and I let myself have the indulgence of thinking about him, his mischievous grin, his long beautiful legs, his passion, before I firmly push him out of my mind. My injuries have healed but I don’t know when the ache for him is going to pass, the wanting of him, buried deep in me. Not the time for that.

( Time to move on. )