We regret our intrusion. We saw you, right around the corner there. The Stranger

MAKING OUT AT ST. JAMES CATHEDRAL

We deeply regret walking into the middle of your passionate kissing outside St. James Cathedral on a recent Sunday. It was early evening, and we were walking around on First Hill, noticing the way downtown towers reflected the brilliance of the setting winter sun. In our dreamy state, we did not see you—a male with black hair, black pants, and raincoat, a female with brown hair, brown dress, a green sweater—until we'd already interrupted you. We were just trying to get a better look at the sunset, and to take a photo of it, when we stumbled into your little heated moment of locked lips, closed eyes, and hands all over each other. We tried to step back unnoticed, but it was too late. Four eyes opened, and the spell was broken. You turned your back to us and faced the sun setting on Seattle. Then we went around the corner and snapped this photo, making sure you weren't in it, to give you some privacy.

WHEN YOU'VE GOTTA GO—OH, GOD

We were walking down 16th Avenue between Union and Pike Streets, passing by Temple De Hirsch Sinai. You were walking down the same street, in the same direction, directly across the street. We were the only people on the block. Then, mid-block, you crossed the street so that you were suddenly walking right in front of us. After a few paces, you pulled down your pants, squatted, and began peeing on the sidewalk, right in our path, right in front of us. You sighed heavily as you relieved yourself, and we had to step around you and the puddle of urine that was pooling on the narrow sidewalk. As we did so, you said, somewhat absentmindedly, "Oh, sorry."

WHEN REPTOIDS ATTACK

You, a tall, lanky person (maybe nonbinary?), were chatting with a group of friends outside Redwood on a Friday night. "That's how they get you," you said. "They show up to your door, but they're not actually FBI." Your friends leaned in closer. "They're not FBI," you continued. "They're reptoids."

READING ABOUT BRITONS IN THE BUS TUNNEL

You were reading a newspaper called the Celtic Connection on a crowded bus wending its way through the tunnels under downtown. You kept reading intently, barely noticing as the bus got more and more packed with rush-hour riders. Standing passengers crowded into the pages of your open newspaper, but you didn't seem to mind. Headline: "Five Britons dead after whale-watching boat sinks."

CONDOLENCES TO YOUR FAMILY

You were texting on the route 41 bus toward Northgate, the font set so large on your screen that only one message showed at a time. We couldn't help but see the words "He had a heart attack."

BALLARD COFFEE WORKS VS. THE STARBUCKS ACROSS THE STREET

At 3:50 p.m. on a weekday at Ballard Coffee Works on Northwest Market Street, a customer who was standing at the front counter but peering out the window toward the Starbucks across the street asked the employee behind the counter, "Who goes to Starbucks? It's so great in here." It is great in there, so great it's often jam-packed. Every single seat was taken—one person reading Salman Rushdie, one person watching a football game, one person writing code. The leather armchairs, the mismatched vintage regular chairs, the love seat, the banquettes, the seats along the counter, the seats along the window, even the wicker chair were all taken. "They have eggnog," the employee behind the counter answered. Another employee offered, "They have cool robots over there. Some people are into that."

KEEPING BUSY AT THE QUEEN BEE

You were doing some serious work on a blueberry muffin at the Queen Bee cafe on Madison Street while your mom tapped away on her tablet. Eventually, you moved on to a puzzle because, as we all know, a blueberry muffin is only entertaining for so long. You had kicked off your tiny blue rain boots and were swinging your socked feet back and forth, having clearly mastered the art of the rainy Saturday morning.

FUCKING GOOD PHO

You were walking briskly down Pine Street on a rainy evening and chatting enthusiastically on the phone about just how "fucking" good that one pho restaurant is. We couldn't hear which of Seattle's many pho restaurants it was, because you were within earshot for only that one moment. Fuck.

CHATTING UP STRANGERS ABOUT SEX TOYS

We saw you, a twentysomething man in dark-blue harem pants, approach a total stranger on the street and say, "Do you know where I can get some sex toys?" It was 8 a.m. on a Saturday morning on Bellevue Avenue. The guy you approached happened to be a straight guy. He was on his way home from his girlfriend's house. Taken aback somewhat (he's in his 50s, he doesn't usually read as gay, he was wearing a tan winter jacket, it was 8 a.m.), he paused and said, "Uh... Babeland." But you were really jonesing: "They're probably not open yet," you said. The straight guy replied, "Yeah, I doubt it." Only later did he realize he was being cruised. recommended