On a yellow-lighted main street we pause on a corner For a moment, our companions lagging behind. You set down the twelve-pack of beer by a lamp post. I zip up my jacket. We both grumble, impatient. I'm cold, you want to get drunker, we both Shiver. You stand against a stone wall, we face Each other across the sidewalk. Your hair Flies into your eyes as you toss your head -- "Come the **** on!" -- at those half a block back.
A couple passes by us, the man in a dark tuxedo, The woman in a white wedding gown and heels, Hair in disarray. They stop their post-nuptial trudging, and she Leans against the building for support to remove Her shoes. His hand rests protectively on Her back; none of us make eye contact. And then Her shoes are off, bare feet padding lightly down The November-chilled San Francisco sidewalk.
"Hurry up, you *******," I heckle backwards at our three stragglers. "Newlyweds are moving faster than you." We glance at each other again, you Light a cigarette and shake your head. It hits Me with a chuckle. "Man, those people Just got married and here they are, walking Down a street in the city at 2 in the morning."
"Right?" you reply, laughing a little. Our eyes meet As if sharing a joke. And then we look away. You cross the sidewalk in two long strides, And bend to pick up your beer, handing me Your cigarette. Within a block our quick pace Has left the others behind again.