The Mission: Everything breaks. Everything burns.

. . . the Mission District, also commonly called "The Mission", is a neighborhood in San Francisco, California, named afterMission San Francisco de Asis . . . due to the existing cultural attractions, less expensive housing and commercial space, and the high density of restaurants and drinking establishments, the Mission is a magnet for young people . . .

I knew even before I saw him in the doorway that it had been a bad idea to come to the bar. We’d met there the month before, at my friend’s birthday. I noticed him as soon as I came in – he was exactly my type, perfectly The Mission, tall and lanky in a plaid shirt. “Damn I want to fuck that guy at the door,” I slurred as I brought drinks to the table where my friends were sitting.

Within two days (may God and my mother forgive me) I would, in the course of a 36 hour first date during which I met two of his ex girlfriends, got two traffic citations, and my car got towed. Perhaps I should have taken the tow as a portent of things to come. After two alcohol, sex, and drug filled weeks we imploded spectacularly in a screaming fight during which he moaned “Everything breaks. Everything burns” with a melodramatic flourish I was already beginning to despise.

That had been two weeks of sporadic texting and awkward meetups ago. And now here he was, slouching in the doorway and working a shift he usually didn’t, ruining my plans for a night devoid of awkward anxiety.

He’d shaved his beard, revealing a weaker chin than I would have expected, and a nascent double chin. Everything, I reminded myself, breaks.

“Hi.”
“Hey.”

It was as silent as The Mission gets on a Saturday night. A girl staggered past yelling something about empanadas. Young Jeezy blared from a nearby car.

“What brings you to the Mission?” he asked.
“Er, well. I was going to meet up with a friend but it didn’t work out and it’s late too late for BART so I’m trying to figure out – I’m babbling, aren’t I?”
“Little bit. Want a drink? On me.”

In retrospect, of course, this was my second mistake, my first being coming to the Mission. After sleeping with the hot door guy. Okay, so my third mistake. After going home with the hot door guy at all.

My fourth. It was my fourth mistake.

“Whaddya mean, your fourth?” he mumbled into my neck as the cab turned off Mission and pulled up in front of his apartment.
“Fourth nothing,” I slurred back, regretting already the last tequila shot.
“Forth something. Fourth down? Sally Forth?”
“God, you’re a dork,” I sighed, pushing past him into the dark apartment. “Where’s your bathroom again?”
“You have a hundred episodes of MST2 – MS3 – of the fucking Golden Girls on tape, so shut up. It’s on the left.”

Goddamn it, I thought, splashing water on my face and trying to get my hair off my neck. Goddamn it I forgot that he makes me laugh. Not good. Not good at all.

The evening progressed according to the appointed Hipster Date timeline. We easily passed through the Drinking Beer and Flirtatiously Mocking TV stage (“All the new Adult Swim shows make me feel like an old person.” “You are an old person.” “Well and lucky for me, we all know how much you like old people.” “Shut up.””You shut up”), the Making Out on the Sofa stage, and the Stumbling Down the Hall Kissing stage. It was at the Pulling Off Clothing and Turning Off Lights stage, usually one of my favorites, that things began to fall apart.

“Mmmm.”
“Oh . . . please . .. ”
I’m so sick and tired of all these pictures of me
“. . . wait . . . hang on . .. “
“Don’t wanna.”
“No, I is that – mm”
I’m not surprised at all really, why should I be?
“It is, that’s – Elliot Smith?”
“Yeah . . . yeah”
“Are you, oh, are we really going to listen to Elliot Smith while we fuck?”
“Looks . . . ah . . . looks like it.”

You’ve got a pretty vision in your head
“It’s a little – oh – it’s weird, though”
“Mmm, move your – yeah”
“At least it’s mmm it’s not Tom Waits”

Some time later
Though you’d rather see me gone
“Stop, um, you have to – stop”
“What? What is it?”
“I just . . . the music. I can’t, oh. I can’t help it.”
“S-seriously?”
“I’m, I keep thinking of Ben Affleck and suicide. It’s taking me out of the moment.”
“I’ll put you back in the moment.”
“Well, now I’m thinking about what a terrible line that – oh.”

The Awkward Pillow Talk stage had been problematic for us since the day, two weeks ago, when he announced, minutes after finishing, that we needed to “take a break.” I was nervous.

He rolled over, gasping, and lay staring at the ceiling, then groped for my hand. I turned to face him. I tried to tamp down the waves of unexpected tenderness I was feeling. I had lost track of the numbers on my list of mistakes by now, but I knew getting attached would be on there. Way up near the top.

“So,” he sighed.
“So.”
“This was good.”
“Yeah. Yeah it was.”
He reached out and tenderly stroked the side of my face.
“I’m so glad you came into the bar.”
“Yeah? I’m – I’m glad too.”
“I just . . . it’s.” His voice broke slightly, and I was charmed despite myself.
“Oh honey, I –“
“I just, I needed sex to keep from thinking about things. Normally I’d just go home and jerk off.”