It doesn’t snow in San Francisco

Marigolds sprout from the damp San Francisco earth as people walk past, basking in the warm July sun. 

But it’s not July, and San Francisco is far from warm. The clouds are heavy, air thick with mist. Coats are zipped, Hothands in palms, breath faintly visible in passing. Her fingers are stiff with cold as she calls out to the crowd, her voice swallowed by bustling traffic. 

City dwellers pass without looking. A blonde in her mid-twenties runs past, late to yoga class. A family of five poses in front of the Union Square Christmas tree, skates in one hand and hot cocoa in the other. 

Their warmth is sealed inside layers of fabric and hurry. She watches them go, flipping a page with numb hands, letting glossy summers and distant places spill briefly into the gray pavement. It doesn’t snow in San Francisco, but the cold finds her anyway, seeping underneath her thin polyester jacket. 

Time speeds in every corner but hers. The newspaper in front of her curls and settles with the breath of passing bodies, but no hands reach for it, no coins clink into her cup.

Loneliness settles within her, a quiet mismatch between her and the empty season.