So there I am, getting off BART at 24th and I am in a mini skirt, t-shirt and tiny denim jacket. It is 55 degrees and the Pacific fog is a monster.

My jaunt downtown to chat up men at a Holocaust exhibit failed miserably. I’m seeing the miss-steps on that one as I walk toward Revolution Cafe for part 2 of my Meet Men in Real Life project for the day. It’s a meet-up for some live jazz.

I am cold. I am desperately trying to Look Confident. I am getting closer to the cafe and hearing the warm riffs of standard jazz pouring from the friendly venue.

I LOVE jazz. I’ve memorized jazz standard lyrics. Be-bop is my go-to at the end of each day. I recognize a very nice rendition of Misty as I cross the street to the front of the cafe.

But I …

I turn, walk right past the cafe and head down the block. And here begin the excuses.

I need cash (you do not).

It’s too crowded (Addie, you do not know this for sure).

I don’t know anyone there (this is actually a requirement of your project).

I failed miserably at the museum just now and feel I may fail at this one, too (okay, I can buy this one).

So, to keep up with my pretense for walking past this lovely place with lovely people, I go to an ATM on Mission and take out $20.

Back you go, dear girl

My tiny walk of shame ends at the place I promised I would go tonight. I enter, smile at people, and head to the counter.

Ah, San Francisco.

The woman behind the counter is flat-chested, wild-haired and dressed provocatively. Her face sports freckles and she is beautiful. I haven’t ordered my glass of Cabernet but she is bored with me already.

“Glass of Cabernet?” I inquire.

Blank stare. The jazz is loud.

“Cabernet?”

Her eyes widen. She seems to understand. Yes!

I sit at the only bar stool left and await my hard-won wine. I turn my attention to the band.

Oh my, they are cute. My age, happy-looking, and they all seem to like each other. They’re taking turns at solos and they are generous. Also, they are good.

I smile at the bass player. He looks away.

Just not my day

So, dear readers, at this point I’m thinking this is just not my day. I struck out at the museum earlier without even going to the plate. Now I’m sitting alone in this place, everybody coupled up or in loud, bumptious groupings. I am flirting with the bass player who is not interested.

Sigh. Again, time to take a look at the other folks here.

A woman knitting alone and nursing a pint of IPA. A group of surfers on the sidewalk puffing on something. Middle-aged jazz groupie men and their patient wives clustered against the back cafe wall.

But, then there’s something interesting: a young couple in the midst of it all, having a very serious-looking talk over a bottle of Sangria. He’s rubbing his face from time to time and looking away. She’s leaning in and then occasionally shrugging back into her chair.

At this point, I’m letting go the dream of striking up a conversation with anyone, so I let myself become a spy. I pull out my phone, tap the camera app, and snap a few shots of this couple. The light is interesting. The Sangria bottle is now empty and just a Picasso-like stack of fruit remains in the bottle. I’m working up the courage to go over to this troubled pair and ask to take a iPhone photo of their empty Sangria bottle.

She’s gone. Her purse is still hanging on the chair. Hey, a break in the break-up action so I should take this opportunity, right? But the guy looks so … so …

Alas, I decide not be be an asshole.

That’s when she’s standing next to me at the bar.

She’s looking at the menu. She’s behind one of the surfer dudes who is having a fantastic journey ordering his beer (bartender not amused) and my portrait subject is just standing there, inches from me. I could literally reach out and tap her on the shoulder.

So I do.

“Hi! I hope you don’t mind, but I was noticing you and your friend over there having a very engaging conversation and I took a few photos of it. I’m a photojournalist.”

(I am?)

“Oh,” says this nice person. “That’s sweet. Yeah, we’re having an intense conversation.”

“Well, I actually kind of like the shots I have here.” I show her the two I took. She likes the lighting. And, because this is the 21st century, I immediately email them to her.

She gets her food and heads back to the table. I turn my attention to the band, which is now in full swing. The bass player catches my eye. I smile and raise my empty wine glass. He gives me a big, full smile.

I’ll quit while I’m ahead. I get up from my bar stool, adjust my skirt, grab my phone and head home.