"Another one?" the bartender asked me in passing, on his way to the ice machine or to grab more napkins or to make a Manhattan. I actually had to go. The woman, whose name had already left me, seemed to have an urgency about her. An urgency that wanted me to stay and talk all night. I could see the two of us ending up at some Financial District disco, doing Jell-O shots and trying to pick up 22 year olds until 2 a.m. She would end up crying on my shoulder out in the street, waiting for her cab, lamenting her suburban angst, and feeling guilty for making out with a kid whose day job involved making lattes at the airport.

I bid her farewell. In an ironic twist, and one that replays over and over for me when I am in Potrero Hill, I got lost trying to get to the Bay Bridge. I ended up on Missouri Street, flanked between old tenements and new contempo-monstrosities, like Huck trapped on that river, between the constraints of society and his own internal voice of right and wrong. Yep, it was jist like 'at. Then I finally found a way to Bryant Street.

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