We’ll meet at some nondescript place like in line at the Bank of America on Powell street on a hazy, grey, why-did-I-even-bother-to-blow-dry-my-hair San Francisco day.I’ll be there fetching a temporary debit card on account of having lost my permanent one over the weekend because that’s what I do; I lose things.The woman in front of us will be sporting multicolored dreadlocks and singing a Janis Joplin song.

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The chef will teasingly ask you if you had a bad high school experience as he flips the mushroom in Beavis’s mouth instead.

We will laugh so hard you’ll almost choke on your fried rice which will make us laugh even harder.

Then we’ll stop laughing and I’ll catch your eye for 10 seconds longer than normal and you’ll find it endearing because at the right time and with the right person, not being normal is okay.

In that moment I’ll want nothing more than for time to stand still.

you’ll ask me why I’m orange and I’ll make a mental note to discontinue my biweekly sessions with Staci-with-an-i at Brown Sugar Spray Tanning salon.

On Sunday afternoons we’ll walk to the Walgreens on Polk street We will go to the SPCA on a sunny Saturday morning and adopt a pit-bull who was rescued from a box on the side of the street in the Mission.

She will be our third Musketeer and we’ll take her with us everywhere we go, including on our Sunday Walgreens jaunts.

You’ll ask for my number in a cheesy way and I’ll find it endearing because sometimes, at the right time and with the right person, cheesiness is okay.

You’ll wait the obligatory 2 days and call me and I’ll pace back and forth in my hallway as we talk, fidgeting with my hair and saying “like” every third word.