A few years ago a friend of mine started a clothing company called Touché Wear. She made custom retro and tropical-print shirts and sold them in boutique stores in San Francisco. (They were sweet.) As part of her company's grand opening, she held a short-short story contest on her web site. Aside from the five hundred word count limit, there were three rules:

- The theme of the story is "Boy's Night Out".

- It should discuss men's shirts at some point.

- The word "touché" must be mentioned at least three times.

The clothing business was a side venture—she's a full-time bartender at North Beach's International Sports Bar ("The Nash" to regulars). She mentioned the contest to me one drippy night there while I was doing battle with the Johnnie Walker Red Label bottle. I opened my writer's notebook and in about ten minutes had a first draft. It's neither Hammett nor Hemingway, but here it stands.

I won the contest, by the way. First prize was a free shirt. Unfortunately none of her apparel fits me, but I'm content with wearing the imaginary blue ribbon.

I was out on the town having Scotches and as good a time as I could manage. The fog had settled in for the night. It was midnight. It was San Francisco.

I told the guy sitting next to me at the bar he was ugly. He said, "Touché."

I had more Scotch. My glass rested on a nest of singles and fivers, some of it tips, the rest for my next drink, and the one after that. An amber flower on a bed of greens.

Pool tables clicked and argued to my left.

The guy next to me said I dressed like a slob. He told me a guy like me will never get anywhere with the ladies looking like that. He told me to take some of that dough and buy a new shirt for crissakes. "Get a sharp looking one, for crissakes," he said. I said, "Touché."

I drank more Scotch. The TV told me the Giants had lost again. It told me a deodorant would get me laid in an elevator. It told me I needed an erection pill. I didn't need an erection at the moment, thanks for asking. I drank some more.

The Scotch started talking to me too. An amber flower on a bed of greens told me how lonely it was. So alone it felt. So cold with the fog just past the open door, so lost in the slick haze that made the eaves drip. It said it was the only amber flower in this wet, cold city, a city of tall talk and late busses. So alone.

I told the guy next to me what my Scotch said. He told me he hated whiners. He said I should show it who's boss. "Tell it who's the boss around here," he said.

I polished it off in one gulp. I said, "Touché." Then I got another Scotch from the bartender.

That one talked a lot less.