He stuck out his hand to hail a taxi, something no one did anymore. It was moments like these when he revealed his age, his thirty-seven years on earth. I liked dating older men because they were well acquainted with loss. They’d seen the rise and fall of rock and roll, good drugs, cheap rent. Their favorite bars had closed, their friends had died, the city had papered over their youth. Having weathered more shit, they were patient with me. They liked to solve my little dramas because it made them feel powerful. They couldn’t bring their friends back from the dead, but they could fix my radiator, hang my curtains, hold me until I fell asleep. Do you believe in life after love … Sure, they were less ravishing now, their bodies ragged and libidos blunted; their lady-killing ways had paled and now they valued things like Costco cards and narrative tension. I didn’t mind. San Francisco would forget them, but I would remember. Miraculously, a taxi appeared. Dino held the door for me and smiled like a millionaire. I thought you’d never ask.