San Francisco

You moved to San Francisco to get away from yourself. It was the same reason you moved to New York. There was too much of you in Brisbane so you had to move to New York; there was too much of you in New York so you had to move to San Francisco.

You explored the city like a child with a new toy. You visited all the touristy places first, then you starting digging deeper, burrowing into the belly of the city, eating it out from the inside and claiming it and making it your own.

You visited all the chic shops in Union Square and strolled through the Financial District. You hung around in North Beach and rested in the Golden Gate Park. You went to the bridge and walked it like a jumper, standing on the edge and looking over the rail in sheer adrenaline-pumping terror. You stood at the corner where Haight met Ashbury and you didn't feel at all like a page out of history, like a traveler in time; you felt like a jackass for even being there at all, thoroughly modern in your designer jeans and leather jacket and your $500 haircut -- growing out, and likewise growing out its natural blond.

In the end, it didn't matter that you'd moved to San Francisco. Yes, the streets were different and the accent was different and the sun set different, but you were still you no matter how hard you tried not to be.

And he was still him. At least you thought so, since you technically hadn't seen him in three months and all you had were your carefully maintained memories. You kept them tucked away like photos in an album on the coffee table -- closed and hidden away but always on the surface of things and always in some corner of your mind.

But you were pretty sure he was still him. You were pretty sure he still forgot to comb his messy blond hair if no one reminded him. You were pretty sure he still smiled placidly at things he found amusing, as if nothing in the world could bother him. You were pretty sure he still had sun-bronzed skin that felt warm to the touch no matter how cold the room was. You were pretty sure he still wrote songs with that focused blank look on his face, turning the rest of the world away so he could concentrate. You were pretty sure his eyes were still jade green.

You were pretty sure he was still in Brisbane, ignoring you as much as you were ignoring him. Dealing with the contractual messes you'd left behind, sorting out who owed what to whom and how quickly your band could be put to rest and the remainder of your lives resumed.

You were pretty sure that when he got tired or frustrated or angry, he left his house and went straight to the beach, where he could walk around with the sand in between his toes and let the sea lap at his feet.

You went to the beach, too, to think. You were doing a lot of thinking in San Francisco, what with all the free time you had.

You'd sit in the sand and rake your fingers through it, sifting it and shifting it around. You'd stare out at the ocean which was on the wrong side of the beach, and at night the sun's rays would burn into your corneas and scorch your brain. So different from home.

You'd think of him, on the opposite side of the world, with his bare feet in the cool sand near dusk, with the sun behind his back as he looked out to sea. Of course, when you were on the beach every evening, it was already the next afternoon where he was; when he was on the beach in Brisbane, you were still asleep in bed.

Alone.

Like always.