On Haight Street there’s a shop that smells like incense and prayer. A man works there– his cheeks are cliffs, his skin is wood. He’s both forty and a thousand all at the same time.
“Meet me at the corner of Haight and Ashbury,” he told her. “You’ll know me by my bowler hat and handlebar mooostache.” He thought that sounded clever. Except for the iphone, he was era-less.