As I exit the stall and face the patiently fuming ladies-room martyr, I playfully wipe the corner of my mouth with fingers whose nails are perfectly painted black. I lock eyes with the woman, challenging her to say something, if she's got something to say to me, but she doesn't. Good. I recognized her as half of the couple that had been sitting next to us in the bar, and chuckle as Bacon and I return to our seats. Not two minutes later, the woman stormed out of the bar and her date followed her in confusion. Maybe she was a tourist to North Beach, harkening from somewhere fancier, like the Marina -- but here? What did she expect?
"So, where were we?"Bacon can't wipe the grin off his big hairy face. I smile back, having taken great pleasure in satisfying him for the fourth time that night already.
"I believe the flowchart of our conversation has been: whiskey, polyamory, marriage, death, motorcycles, suicide, and then fucking in the bathroom."
"Ah yes. Well, we better get another round then."