A mysterious stranger kissed me at the end of a parade, many years ago.
He disappeared into a crowd of naked bicyclists, leaving only his first name. I thought that was it.
That same stranger had bartered for one of my paintings a few days prior, in the arts district. And two weeks later, I walked Belmont with a roommate, just catching a glimpse of him entering a bar with his friends. My heart was pounding as I convinced her to slip into the place with me. I wasn't twenty-one. I didn't mention the stranger to her and waited to be recognized. What became of things after that matters a lot less to me, than the way the world felt so small when I lived in the city. There were so many more people, you would think the chances of random, multiple encounters across different neighborhoods would be slim. But it wasn't, and I always found that magical.