Across Continents

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Cup cake

I was certain he’d called me cup cake. And in San Francisco that made me especially nervous. I’d a list. San Andreas Fault. Invasion of the Bodysnatchers. Alcatraz. Trams. A Sixties song I could never remember the name of. Something to do with flowers in your hair. And a scribbled, cryptic note about tolerant society. Just in case anyone glanced at it over my shoulder. Not wishing to offend, however unintentional.

But I was mistaken. He was merely offering me something to accompany my coffee. I smiled, paused briefly and then politely declined. Felt I should somehow have responded with a witty quip. Just as I’d done at one campground. Mentioning I was contemplating lighting a fire, he’d asked if I had wood. No, I’d quickly replied, it was just the padding. You had to be there.



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