"She knew." 

It comes to me I've repeated this one phrase at least five times but the face beneath the heavy shock of dark blonde hair looks bemused and interested nonetheless; the lights over the bar flash across the small framed wire rimmed glasses as he turns his head slightly and signals the bartender. 

We're drinking Corona and I reach for the small tray of sliced limes placed handily within reach and force a wedge into the clear neck then take a healthy gulp before sitting it neatly back on the dry, recently replaced napkin. 

And say it again, before I can stop myself. 

"She knew." 

He nods for what has to be the tenth or twelfth time but still manages to look properly grieved and consoling. 

"I don't know if she knew the pictures had been taken, if that was what she knew, or if she just knew the camera set up was still there.  But she wasn't surprised, that's the thing.  You'd think a bunch of pictures of you naked fall out on the floor in front of people and there'd be a little shock registry going on.  Wouldn't you?"

I sound rather desperate and hear it which is startling and makes me frown; he nods again, then shakes his head in commiseration and takes a comradely drink of his own beer.  He has long fingers, the tips splayed and flat and the typical pallid San Francisco Bay Area complexion; he can't be over twenty three and has already told me he works in software and freelances a bit for various Silicone Valley corporations, writing code.  From his Dockers to his wire rims to his shaggy hair ; he screams Geek. 

He's been buying the Coronas and I'm hard pressed to figure out exactly why.  I don't detect any sexual interest and my woeful tale is hardly fascinating to anyone but me.  Maybe the lesbian factor, I've decided.  Likes just the idea of two girls naked together. 

Hardly a novel reaction. 

Even blitzed I'm being cautious about exactly how much I've told.  I've left out anything to do with law enforcement or career choices or exactly how I ended up in the hallway of a San Francisco home having my entire life explode in my face as a series of photographs tumbled to the plush carpet.  Ex girlfriend; new lovers; naked girls on film.  That's all that's required for this tale. 

"Whoa," I breathe as I slide off the stool and wobble slightly.  One white hand flashes out and grabs for me but I right myself and grin, no doubt drunkenly.  "Bathroom," I say succinctly and he nods, brows shooting upwards beneath the thick forelock of hair.  I try to remember if he's actually spoken to me and decide I've been gut-spilling too proficiently to give him much of a chance. 

"What was your name again?" I ask and he shoves the little glasses up his nose slightly before he grins back and responds.

"Michael." 

The looks he's giving me is wry and I realize I've only asked him this a dozen times in the space of several tequila shots and subsequent Corona chasers. 

"And you're in software? Right?"

He nods, smiling, and shrugs as if to say, "isn't it obvious?" or perhaps, "isn't everyone out here?"

"Yeah.  Software.  Mostly free lance.  Doesn't pay as well as working for one of the larger corporations and being on the pay roll but there's a lot more freedom and less regulation.  Bathroom," he reminds me and I nod and begin picking my way through the place.

It's a Pub & Coffee Bar; or so the sign outside declares.  I'd told the taxi driver who'd picked me up I wanted to get drunk somewhere 'sane and reasonably quiet' and he'd nodded and dropped me off in front of a big stained glass window featuring an overly large brown glass bottle of lager next to a jade green soup bowl sized cup of latté.   The words 'The Brew & Java' twine ornately in creamy off white colors of glass above them both; only in California, I'd thought ducking in.  Get drunk on one side, stumble over and caffeinate enough to get home on the other. 

I don't look drunk, I think before splashing my face with water and then rest my hands on the sink to lean and peer intently at the rather white face beneath the unfamiliar red cowlick.  

She knew. 

I can't get past that one thought. 

"She knew." 

My voice echoes off the white tiles and the female three feet down at another sink half starts, moving the silk leaf of an artificial ivy as she glances at me and carefully transfers her leather purse to the side of the counter most far from me. 

"I don't dance," he insists and proves it by doing the proverbial white boy shuffle and bob until I take pity on him and let him lead me back to the bar area. 

Every person in the pub with rhythm heaves a coordinated sigh of relief.

"This can't be interesting to you," I say and he shrugs, half smiling. 

"You'd be surprised, Coop." 

First name basis, I think wonderingly and search for his. 

"Michael," he tells me again, grinning this time for real and shakes his head at the bartender as he slides the latest Corona out of my reach on the bar's immaculately gleaming varnished top.  "You've had enough to forget the last ten years, much less the last ten hours, Cooper Finn.  C'mon." 

The smile he turns on me is sweet and I shock both of us by tidying the mass of hair falling into his face and plucking the glasses off his nose to polish them before freezing and looking up beneath the red bangs cautiously to gauge his reaction. 

He's as bewildered as I am; hazel eyes blink at me in myopic confusion. 

I clear my throat as I awkwardly hand them back and watch as the blush spreads fitfully up his white face from his whiter throat. 

"You just seem so familiar," I say rather plaintively and he blinks before settling the spectacles firmly on his nose again. 

I come fairly close to coherent when we're in the taxi; enough to realize I'm about to lose a great deal of Corona and tequila shots from at least one orifice. 

Michael's calm about the matter and the taxi driver's too thrilled I choke out a command to pull over and manage to get it outside the vehicle to bother cringing or complaining. 

I take the peppermint offered me mutely and lean against him without protest when he puts an arm around me and gently eases my head down. 

My voice is slow and rough when I speak, my tone reprimanding. 

"When I'm not drunk you're going to tell me why you seem so familiar."

I feel him laugh more than hear it. 

"Okay. But sleep now, alright?" 

"You're not a bad guy though," I slur hopefully, blinking up at both of his faces and all four of the glass rectangles blink merry slashes of San Francisco street lights as he shakes his head. 

"No.  I'm a good guy."

"Promise?" I croak, half laughing and am more than a little stunned when he nods and pats my head awkwardly, hands nervous but kind.

"Promise."