Sure, he saw it. He never missed a thing. Well maybe one thing. He leaned on a SF icon, the lamppost, thinking about Joe. He always remembered him especially on nights like these. . .damp, foggy, sounds of foghorns in the harbor.
It was just one of these nights when Joe met her. Sultry, swaying into the bar, eyes wide and dark, blonde hair tangled from the mist. She spotted Joe right off, placing her well formed body too close to his barstool.
The exit sign warned, and Joe should have left, knowing she wasn’t the sort to mess with.