There’s an eggs benedict with Canadian bacon on a puff pastry at Dolce Amore. The cafe is a quick walk away from me in the brisk, fresh San Francisco air. When I sit down with my book, the smiley owner greets me as he places silverware atop a glass table containing expensive French artifacts.
Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve started to enjoy myself a little here. To be entirely honest with you, there are still days I shake in my boots when I meet new people. I need to get boots that stop me from shaking. Silly boots I have. And then there are other days, more days than ever before, when I act so bravely, I don’t recognize myself.
My buddy poured his heart out yesterday about a girl he recently loved. It seems everyone has a story about their broken heart, but it never seems hackneyed to me. I hugged him and told him I know. It seems your mind, oddly enough, should choose your match. If only my mind could steer my heart…all would make sense then. But then I suppose I’d never savor those eggs benedict. I’d never have attempted to make Thanksgivingukkah for a boy (and fallen down mid-street, spilling wine all over myself). I’d never have joined flash mobs. I’m here, fortunately or unfortunately, driven by my crazy heart. And I guess I’ll keep going.
wrapmeinbacon 