Bus Report #718
"It's just right there, 16th and Potrero," said the more sober of the two drunk men. He leaned forward, grasping the pole, and pointed vaguely out the window. The other drunk man sat behind me. His breath was labored and he stunk like old booze and something more chemical, but it was too early in the morning for me to figure out what it was.
One of the boyfriends, older, bearded, said something to the younger boyfriend, round-faced with black nail polish. The younger man nodded and ran his hand through his hair.
I got out before they did, but ten minutes later I caught sight of the four of them, crossing Potrero in the opposite direction, carrying steaming cups of coffee in their hands.