Demba Diansan

Fort Mason, San Francisco

I could hear an echo of a bongo in park from the top of the cliff above Fort Mason, but I saw no one until I descended the steps, crossed the parking lot, and hurried towards the bay where the Golden Gate Bridge loomed under a shroud of fog in the distance. At last, I saw him—a sober fellow, quite handsome, my type really—crouched against wall, rhythmically beating a bongo between his legs. That moment lifted my spirits. I was happy. It was tempting to want to know him more and, I supposed, if I had there would be no other. I watched him play until the very end, then applauded as our eyes finally connected and we shared a fervent smile.