A train. A tunnel. Oakland. Walking in the dim light. A bar. Paper (a book). Beer. Basketball on the screen. A small crowd. An argument at the other end of the bar. Singing outside. A birthday. An hour or two. Hannah. A smile. Hugging. Giggles. Small, but easy talk. A silver ring on her index finger. Jean jacket. Her? She builds things. Jewellery. Piercings. A forklift certification. Art studio. Three tattoos. One bad. A redesign and re-ink is in the works. Me? The book. The work. The web. The charming British thing. A walk around the block. A Mexican joint. Burritos. Comic books. Transmetropolitan. A walk to her car. It’s dirty. She tidies up and for the first time I notice her body. A short drive in the dark. Podcasts. Song Exploder. Her place. More giggles. A story. A famous neighbour, who happens to be one of my favourite writers, is her friend. I see this guy’s place. His house. His lawn. That’s where he lives. Goosebumps. Her front door. The jangling of keys. A dog called Bear. A kitchen. Wine. An evening. A morning. A story. Her? Berlin, indefinitely. Me? San Francisco, I guess.