Neil San Francisco — 1985 Cinnamon Spice

It’s late. Neil is home mixing a cake. The rich spicy scent of cinnamon permeates the room. Huck sits on the counter watching, hoping for a dollop of batter. He has not sworn off sweets, only Chinese sweets. He hops off the counter and crows excitedly.

“Shhh,” Neil cautions. ‘It’s late. You’ll wake the neighbors.”

Neil feels rather than hears a soft knock on the door. Neil could have sworn it is locked. He always locks his door. It is, after all, the Tenderloin. But the door doesn’t actually open. It fades away like the memory of pain.

Pamela stands in the doorway. Neil stops stirring and opens his arms. Pamela doesn’t even need to cross the room. She melts into him, soft as butter into flour. She is cold, damp as night fog. Neil rubs her arms. Huck leaps onto her shoulder, leaning across to peck some batter off the counter before gliding back to the floor. Pamela laughs. “Birds,” Pam says,” I’ve always loved birds, so light, so free, so unbound to Earth.”