I am walking up Van Ness avenue on a clear, brisk January morning in San Francisco. I have plenty of time until my psychiatrist appointment. As always, I wear no watch. I'm wearing just jeans, a white tank top, and a dark green, unbuttoned flannel shirt. I've got my light tan construction boots on. It's not a black day. But the approach to Cathedral Hill exhausts me. Damn. I used to walk this without a problem. The Interferon therapy has sapped my energy. I remove the shirt and tie it around my waist.

I approach a group of suits. All the men are talking in that subtle, my penis is bigger than yours, way. Mingling at the edge of them is a solitary, quiet, young woman, probably in her thirties. She is well proportioned and has that obviously dyed blond hair that I find attractive, anyway. It's straight and falls to her shoulders. She's a little spread in the butt but it looks good up on those three inch heels. A nice package. I wonder which of the clones is banging her?

I approach their little, milling herd. Are they waiting for a taxi or something? I will slip by them unnoticed. Easy enough among the men, a quick glance tells them all they need: No suit. Loser. Hardly a blip on their radar. They return to whatever is important to them. Good enough for me.

The woman sees me as I pass around the group. She looks at me with a cautious smile. She pulls her hair away from her face, behind her left ear, with her left hand. She must be right‑handed I think idly. I attempt to slide past her. She looks right at me and asks, “Do you know what time it is?”

I stop. I look into her eyes and respond, “Now.”

She is momentarily set back. She notices my arms. “Are you OK?” Is this guy a creep?

“I was in a terrible fight. But you should see the other guy!” I jubilantly explain.

She stares at me in stunned silence.

“Have a nice day,” I tell her as I resume my climb up Cathedral Hill.

This was a waking dream.