Without saying another word I leave the bar. Outside the fog-shrouded night allows for little light. Following my instincts, I turn left and walk the block to the corner. There I go left again, moving downhill.

I cross my arms in front of me against the cold. In my haste, I left my trenchcoat behind in the bar. My penny loafers squeak satisfyingly in hasty pursuit. At least I had worn them instead of sandals. It was usually too cold at night in San Francisco to wear sandals. I peek into every entryway on the block and don’t see them. The sidewalk is empty.

When I reach Post St. the couple is still nowhere in sight. I decide to cross and go down one more block. The hundred-year old Victorian architecture is a blur in the darkness. Bay windows loom overhead, not all with a view....

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