It’s 7 p.m. on a Monday in the Mission. The man walking in front of us is drunk, very drunk, and angry. He spins around to engage with us, and Bryan turns me by the elbow toward a display window. We pretend to discuss eyewear trends long enough to confuse the man, and he continues on.

We’re a quarter block behind him when he begins to weave and stumble dangerously. He is crossing the street, tilting forward, forward, until suddenly he is horizontal.

He falls so fast, so hard, there isn’t even time to gasp. I can still hear his teeth smack the asphalt.

http://www.db798.com/pictobrowser.swf

My camera, she is broken. Broken since before we left Argentina, in fact. Not fixing it turned out to be stupid, as I lost many photos from this lovely weekend with the girls. Most regrettably, all the naked ones.

-You should know, I’m a sleep farter.
-Noooooo!
-Yeah, it’s true.
-I like to scream in my sleep. Scream and scream.
-I’m a sleep stabber.
-…I’m a sleep Republican.

Our arms are full of bags, there are plastic bags hanging from our elbows, our wrists, our fingertips. We climb aboard the elevator, watch the doors close, and pause uncomfortably for a moment. I look at the buttons, at Melissa, back at the buttons. Then I lean forward and press our floor button with my nose.

I straighten back up.

“That may be the most unsanitary thing I’ve ever done.”

Me: Shit. It’s dark.
Melissa: I know! And the banks are super high. Do they just have enormous plows?
Me: Yeah.
Melissa: And it’s totally deserted. This is so strange.
Me: I’m cool. I’ll just consume your flesh while I wait for rescue.
Melissa: Yeah, which part should you start with?
Me: Which limb do you use least?
Melissa: Help arrives like minutes later, and you’re hunched over my body.
Me: I’m like, “Whaa?”
Melissa: OK. So it’s true we just had dinner, but I was nervous!
Me: I felt anxious!
Melissa: Don’t judge me!