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I met a girl who is a lot like me while not being like me at all. She is quieter. More demure. More girl-like. Makes me realize what a cad I am. Burping and not combing my hair for days on end. If I’m not careful I’m going to get scooped up by one of the many Missions in my neighborhood for some hot soup and a roll.

This girl creates urges in me for beauty products and cute “outfits.”

We bonded over beer drinks at a dive bar on Capitol Hill. The music was loud and punk rock. We were at a two top over by the pool table. The boys playing there kept prowling around us, apologizing as they slid up against her or me to make the shot. They smelled like sweat and sexy in their tight t-shirts and low rise jeans. We yelled over the music. Yelled about how each of us had been spit out in Seattle for jobs that were too good too pass up. Yelled about how our business’ had went under. Yelled about how we went from never worrying about money to scraping together change for coffee. And boys. We yelled about boys. Been done wrong, been done right. For every story I had, she had one to match.

Tipsy, we left the bar for the last few minutes of daylight at 10pm. The streets were full of people. Hipsters. Punk rockers. College kids. Lurking in doorways and sitting on cars. Music poured out into the streets from the bars and their open doors. I had on my high heeled mary janes and was occasionally finding it hard to navigate the sometimes cobblestone sidewalks. We laughed and smiled. People seemed friendlier. We made eye contact with everyone we passed.

The smell of feta and spinach and lemon lured us into the Capitol Hill Grill. Food to soak up the beer. We found a spot on the couches and ordered pomegranate martinis and a hummus plate dotted with feta and olives and roasted red peppers. We sunk into the cushions and started talking with the people across from us. We shared food and tales and music tastes. Everything was velvet there. The curtains, the pillows, the couch, the conversation. Dripped in soft and jeweled toned.

It’s like this. Little by little. That a new city becomes home.

We stayed until bar close. And drank until bar close. And swirled pita in lovely patterns through creamy white dip until the waitress took the plate at last call. The couches were hard to get up from. Almost holding onto me, they were. Wiggling myself away, my legs were like spaghetti when I got to my feet. Hit with warm that slipped through me, I did nothing more than smile and deliberately put one foot in front of the other. Down the stairs with new friends and suddenly outside in the cool night, saying good byes with hugs and promises of getting together for a movie or dinner or window shopping in the next few days. I hailed a cab with the flick of my wrist and fell in. Saying my address and holding on as he did a u-turn and headed downhill to the inky night time water front.

I watched the buildings turn from quaint to glass and steel and back to quaint again as we pulled up in front of my apartment building. All at once I was glad that I was staying here. Glad that the place with the fog didn’t pan out like i thought it would and that this city, for all of my fighting, was becoming my home. Almost in spite of me. Maybe because of me. Either way. It was nice. It still is nice. This morning is me, at the coffee shop. Messy hair, in my hoodie and blue jeans. taking a handful of aspirin with a sip of iced coffee. Smiling and sharing music downloads with the boy a table away.

Perfect how strings tether us together.