With the ever-evolving bar world of San Francisco, it’s never a bad idea to check out the competition. However, I don’t know if a Mission District dive bar that allows dogs and has a metal and punk rock–crammed jukebox qualifies as competition—it’s just where Tad insists on going sometimes.

I watch Tad take the first sip of his Saison. This place has a million fucking beers on tap. I’m waiting for him to give me his opinion of it, but instead he just shakes his head.

“Some fuckin’ life, huh?”

Tad’s getting philosophical, so I take a taste of my porter. It’s too dark and rich, but I don’t know what the hell else I feel like drinking tonight.

“Why don’t you expound on that?” I ask into my pint glass.

“Dude, you—more than anyone I know—can have any woman you want.”

“I get it, Tad.”

“But you’re ready to decide now, to commit yourself to someone, stress the fuck out over her, and then get into fights with your family over it?”

“Yeah, that’s fucking right. Anything else you’d like to say about it?”

The walls are lined with all kinds of crap —hockey jerseys, old photos, T-shirts, decals, posters—and it’s starting to grow on me. This is the type of thing certain big chain restaurants go for but end up failing fucking miserably since they lack authenticity. It would also never work at one of my bars, nor should it.

Tad holds his hands up. “Not a damn thing, man. I just think it’s awesome. That’s the endgame for all of us, isn’t it?”

Well, if nothing comes out of this shitstorm of uncertainty, at least I know Tad is an uncommonly good friend. I won’t tell him that, though, because he sure as fuck doesn’t need to hear it.

“I hope she calls soon, otherwise this really is the endgame.”

“There’ll be others too.”

Tad’s not even trying to be believable, but it might be time to face reality.

“Miranda’s still coming on to me.” I try taking another swig of the porter. It’s already getting warm.

Tad claps his hands down on the bar and swivels back and forth for some reason.

“You don’t say. How’s that been going?”

“The usual these days. Not great for either of us.”

Not great for her, sure. For me, I have no idea. I’m not used to just sitting back and accepting things as they happen. I’m a man of action. But right now, waiting things out may just be my best strategy.

“I hope that porter’s working out for you.” Tad’s barely finished speaking when he starts attacking his own beer again.

“I can’t say it’s working out at all...”

My phone starts going off in my pocket, and something about the room’s acoustics make it much too loud.

“Answer your phone, Kirk,” Tad hisses, jokingly angry.

I take out my phone and see that it’s Miranda calling. Jesus Christ. But I don’t have it in me to even get that annoyed, so I pick up.

“What is it, Miranda?”

“Kirk, it’s good to hear your voice!” Miranda’s own voice sounds syrupy and cloying. She’s really hamming it up. I roll my eyes.

“What do you want?”

“Hey...Kirk, uh, actually, I need to make this quick. Time is of the essence. First of all, I’m sorry about earlier, about being a bitch and everything.”

“Miranda, that’s not what—”

“No, no, I totally was. I need to make it up to you.”

“Please don’t.”

“Listen! I just saw Emily.”

I automatically stand up—like get right the fuck up out of my chair, knocking it over behind me in the process.

“Where?” I demand.

“At the wine bar. I know that she’s heading home right now. If you’re still looking for her, she should be there, at least for a little while.”

“Really. Okay, thanks. Yeah. Okay. I’ve gotta go.”

“Yeah, no problem. I would hurry, though, if I were you.”

Miranda hangs up first, which is a first.

I pat Tad on the back.

“Hey, Emily’s heading home from the bar now. I might be able catch her.”

I make a beeline for the door, hearing Tad’s pep speech on the way out.

“Oh, dude, you better run. That’s a long way.”

As I leap out onto Van Ness, I swear I hear Tad shouting “good luck” or something like that, but my mind is on getting a taxi.

I see one...shit, that one’s taken, but the one behind it has its light on.

I find myself waving both arms over my head like a goddamn maniac, and the cab mercifully pulls over.

I swing into the back seat and interrupt the driver trying to say hello by shouting Em’s address. He gets the message and we’re off—down to 20th, turning right—okay, no, goddammit, don’t go north on Capp, you fool!

“19th back to Van Ness!”

The driver gives me a wave of acknowledgment and takes my instructions. We speed back to Van Ness and rocket north toward Emily’s neighborhood. Good, making all the lights.

Fuck, now there’s traffic from the Bay Bridge off ramp. Jesus Christ, come on already. Fucking move it!

“No worries,” the cabbie lilts, sounding so peaceful but not helping.

I feel like I’m about to crawl out of my skin. I’m so anxious to just fucking get there already.

What does help is him lurching the taxi across several lanes and finding a pocket of faster-moving vehicles.

Fucking finally. Now we’re moving again, zooming north and picking up speed until the cabbie makes a sudden left turn toward Pacific Heights.

I’m pretty sure the entire right half of the vehicle is off the ground, but the taxi levels itself, and I almost hit the ceiling—then the cabbie has to slam on the breaks for a red light. I hear light classical music playing quietly on the radio.

“So is it a pretty busy night tonight? A lot of fares?”

“Yeah, pretty busy, but I can go home after one or two more.”

“Nice.”

I don’t even know how I’m making small talk right now.

The light turns green, and we burn rubber, not relenting until we get to Emily’s block. The taxi starts slowing down, and...wait, that’s her! Emily!

But wait…she’s not alone. My stomach drops.

Fuck, what am I doing?

The taxi comes to a stop just behind her and, yep, sure as fuck, that’s a guy.

“Just wait for me a minute. I have something to figure out,” I instruct.

“Meter’s running, boss,” the driver advises me as I step out, my eyes glued to Emily and whoever that fucker is as they walk toward the entrance of her building.

I don’t know whether to even bother. She’s on a fucking date, and it’s not like she’s calling me all the time—or at all.

Like, what the fuck am I doing?

I’m pining after Emily, telling my family to fuck off because she’s the one I want to be with. And here she is with another guy? Going into her apartment no less.

Time to get back in the taxi...but I did come all the way up here, and maybe that’s a platonic friend or something. That could be possible...but no, that’s ridiculous.

I need to get the fuck out of here and rethink my whole fucking life at this point.

I spin around and yank open the door of the taxi. The sound causes Emily to stop and look over her shoulder. At me.

It’s hard to read her expression from where I am, but she does look at me for a long moment...and then looks nervously at the guy she’s with.

Fuck. I shouldn’t be here. But I also can’t make myself walk away.