Back in San Francisco, riding my bike not far from my home. A new little place named The Pinocchio Cafe has opened on the corner of an odd triangular block. Usually I might wait to try somewhere so close, but I’m probably moving soon. When I decide to go in I run into my New York cousins seated at a table in a niche by the window. They’re just leaving, so we say hi then trade spots. The space is somehow even cozier inside as the tables wrap around a big tree trunk in the middle.
I notice a blue striped shirt laid over the back of a chair near the cafe entrance. It’s maybe more preppy than my usual style, but I turn it inside-out and it looks much better that way. The clothing tag is covered by the collar which makes it more comfortable than normal, even. I make an effort to notify staff that I found the shirt. An admittedly small effort, making no presumptions that I don’t intend to keep it.
A girl from high school, former classmate of mine with tall with bright orange hair and freckles, Samantha P. How we encounter each other I can’t recall. But here she’s even taller than usual — much taller than me. I vividly remember looking up at her, her looking down at me and smirking, more than a foot above my upturned face. I propose having a tall contest fully expecting no one can beat her. I do put in an honest effort though and I finally remember/come across an old SF friend Sherilyn C. It’s amazing, but she’s just about able to see eye-to-eye with Sam. Amusing, too, since there’s an obvious understanding that it doesn’t particularly matter which of them is actually taller; it’s incredible great to find someone else even in the same category. This whole dream has the same aire of friendly competition bordering on flirtation.
