He was like the tallest tree in the forest

He was like the tallest tree in the forest, a head above everyone in the crowd, staring straight ahead at the television playing vintage 70s porn on the screen. That, he said, pointing his beer bottle at the scene, that is what I call too high of a standard.

We talked about politics, living in San Francisco, a Tennessee Williams play, small towns in Texas. He mentioned his girlfriend a few times and alluded to the apartment they shared uptown, a duplex they lived in. His downstairs neighbor was a half-deaf elderly Chinese woman who didn't really hear the guitars playing late at night.

Like a gentleman, he put me in a cab when I left, giving me a courtly bow. He handed me his card, placing it carefully in my hand, balanced between the heart and life line on my palm. Call me, he said. I looked down at his name as the cab pulled away and the wind blew around him at cross-purposes. Through the window I watched him walk back into the bar, hands stuffed in his pockets like armor.