The San Francisco trolley tracks were old and new. They were built when trolleys were a necessity and not a luxury or a joy ride. But they shined so bright in the early California sun. By noon, they would be hot enough to deep fry a hamburger on.
But it wasn’t noon yet.
The copper plating and iron screws were still night time cool to the touch. Streetwalkers and homeless people were able to cross the tracks without melting their cheap plastic soles or searing their dirty bare feet.
The stale smell of old onions rings and cold sesame oil saturated the air, seething through open alleyways and closed stores.
The sun rose higher in the sky. The city’s smog turned a cozy shade of sunrise pink. In a couple of hours, the smog would turn into sultry orange haze.
Off in the distance, a boat called out.
And the Golden Gate stood like a ghost in the morning smog.