The green, green grass of home

It has been amazingly freezing lately. Today, I walked to BART barelegged but in a huge wool coat, to which I like to refer as my "bathrobe." It's not actually a bathrobe, it's in all likelihood a very expensive Jaeger coat, as it once belonged to my grandmother. Its shoulders are massive, its waist is all but undefined. I call it my bathrobe because the sleeves are long and wide and meant to be cuffed. It was not what I was looking for, due to the aforementioned details as well as its singlebreastedness, but I like nothing better than to wrap myself in its blackness.

After not seeing Tag for months (perhaps an exaggeration), I have run into him twice in the past 5 days, as follows:

Scene 1: I am sitting in the dingy corner of the Uptown bar at 17th and Capp. There are four beat-up couches positioned around a large, low, square, wooden coffee table that reminded me of one upon which Vicodin was crushed and snorted in early 2002. There is a lamp that looks like it belongs in someone's attic, torn shade, bright but warm light. The jukebox plays songs that I would have picked had I any quarters, and I am surrounded by Jacob and his hipster friends. Next to me is Tom, and we are catching up with the owls and the lichen and the judges, as Jacob looks on with a strange air of eagerness and hopefullness. I see Tag sidle into the nearby bathroom. I continually glance in the direction of the bathroom, waiting for him to emerge. When he does, I catch his eye, and he gives me his hand in a gentlemanly gesture of helping me climb over the table. I follow him to where Daniella and Dida are perched with their drinks. None of us have anything to say. I return to my spot on the couch next to Tom, and talk to a Stanford grad student about French linguistics. Or rather, I listen to him talk. Or rather, I nod and say, "Oh, really?" at opportune moments, all the while waiting for Tom to give some indication that he's ready to leave.

Scene 2: I am leaving MacArthur BART, and I see a forlorn blond in the black watchcap standing outside the gates with his messenger bag slightly askew. I walk resolutely up to him and ask, "Are you lost, young man?" "Haha, no. I'm waiting for Kristen." And, well, that was about it. I told him I had to go kickbox. He said OK. I told him to stop by sometime. He said sure. He continued to wait for Kristen, and may, for all I know, still be waiting.