Flip flops are swift and his dirty toes saunter in them, flipping and flopping. Flip, flop in canyons deep crevasses in those dirty toes. He smells of cheap beer on the trolley to San Francisco’s rolling hilltops. At the tippy top of that hill she waits for him and his dirty toes. She’s humming a sweet song and strums the left side of her thigh. It itches. Beads of sweat drip down the nape of her neck. Her hair is bobbed like stonework, neatly but jagged. She’s tired. She worked the night shift at the diner. Butter and grease stench her clothes like a stain. Stains, she has those too. A little boy spilt his mother’s coffee on her apron, it looked like swelling rust on the crisp white of the utility-esque clothe. His hands sliver into hers when they meet. They wait together as he grabs his duffle bag. It’s packed with dirty clothes and his toothbrush. He tripped. Laughter sounded laughter.