Ice cream is my observation food.
I’m sitting on the curb by the Castro Station, watching a nighttime exodus of dapper gay couples—strolling nowhere in particular—while catching snatches of passerby dialogue between bites of a Neapolitan ice cream sandwich.

Starting on the strawberry side, I listen to bits of chat from the street men, talking about things I know nothing of, though I still strain to hear. Each person walking by, I realize as I finish the first pink third, is their own story, their own person, and I feel a strange urge to follow them around.

With vanilla I look up at the city lights and semi-starry sky, both of which frame a giant flapping flag, whose wind-aided whipping is just audible above the sounds of cars and people. Just then an ambulance flies by screaming, and I suddenly wish to be a paramedic on it, comforting the poor person inside as we rush through the night. A silly wish, maybe, but it still seems right.

By chocolate my thoughts are back to earlier in the evening, getting pushed out of the door of my girlfriend’s house, and crying bitterly on her stoop at the thought that the only touch she would afford me was a shove.

I finish the last bite of the cool treat, crumple the wrapper and throw it away, then descend into the Muni station. The night is still young but I’m tired.