Summer Frost

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I watched her steal the Maserati twenty minutes ago in broad daylight from the Fairmont Hotel. Now, from three cars back, all I can see is the spill of her yellow hair over the convertible’s bucket seat and the reflection of her aviator sunglasses in the rearview.

The light turns green.

I accelerate with traffic through the intersection of Presidio Parkway and Marina Boulevard, past the Palace of Fine Arts, the rotunda dwindling away in the side mirror.

We skirt the northern edge of the Presidio, pass through the tunnel and the tolls, and then I’m climbing the gradual incline toward the first orange tower of the bridge. There is no fog this morning, the bay sparkling under a sky so radiantly blue it doesn’t look real. With the exception of a few iconic landmarks, the white city in the side mirror looks nothing like the one I know.

I touch the Ranedrop affixed to the back of my left earlobe and say, “Brian? Do you copy?”

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