Free Cooking Most Deadly by Joanne Pence

on the windowsill, enjoying the feel of the cool breeze against her face and shoulders, enjoying being alone for the first time that evening.
    â€œWarm, isn’t it?” said a silky smooth male voice.
    She glanced up. A tall, muscular man with oversize, darkly tinted glasses and a long, thick mustache stood beside her, a little too close. He smiled at her. “Yes, very,” she said, polite but cool, and again faced the window.
    â€œThis is my first time here,” he said. His hair was slicked straight back and heavily pomaded.
    She didn’t reply.
    â€œIt’s rather intimidating,” he continued. “All these people. You never know if any of them will talk to you or not.My friends told me to give it a try, though. They said…they said most people were pretty nice.”
    What was this guy doing, trying to pick her up or hold a session with Dr. Joyce Brothers? “And some want to be left alone,” she said pointedly.
    â€œThat’s very true. Do you come here often?” he asked.
    He was dense or persistent or both. She folded her arms, still staring at the alley view of garbage cans and backs of buildings. “No.”
    â€œOh? Why not?” he asked. He leaned his shoulder against the window frame and cocked his head, a casual pose, as if they were having a friendly chat. It was presumptuous. She wished he’d go away from her window.
    She stiffened. “I haven’t wanted to.”
    â€œAh. Well, you’re lucky. Yours is a much better reason than mine.”
    She’d had it. This boor was a walking cliché. “I know, you were too busy working, right? Something involving high finance, making lots of money, I suppose? Pardon me if I’m not impressed.” She’d delivered the words with a sneering tone that should make any self-respecting male leave in a huff. It didn’t.
    â€œNo, that’s not it at all. But still, I don’t blame you for not being impressed. There’s nothing impressive about me, I’m afraid.” She glanced his way. These were the first words he’d spoken that had any ring of truth. He shook his head, then bowed it, as if casting his gaze downward. Through his eyeglasses’ dark tint, she couldn’t tell for sure. “I’ve been alone too much,” he added.
    This guy had quite a line going. He’d almost taken her in, too. He was pretty good at this. “So you’ve come to a dance club to make up for it?”
    He chuckled. “I can see you don’t believe me. I don’t blame you. My…my reason isn’t very believable, I’m afraid.”
    â€œNow that I do believe,” she said, not sure why she was still being civil. Well, sort of civil.
    He adjusted his glasses. “Actually, it was pretty terrible—”
    That did it. “Excuse me,” she said, and turned to leave.
    â€œWait. I’m sorry. I’m making quite a mess of explaining.” He quickly stepped in front of her. “My…my wife died some months ago.”
    â€œSure.” She tried to get around him.
    â€œHere I thought you were a decent human being!” His lip curled in disgust, and he stepped back as if fearful of being tainted by her.
    She stared at him in shock.
    â€œI don’t know the kind of people you normally associate with, lady,” he said, “but I assure you, I wouldn’t lie about my wife’s death. You may be lovely, but no one is that beautiful.” His voice broke, and he faced the window.
    She felt guilty and very, very small over the way she’d spoken. When had she become so jaded? “Wait! I’m sorry.” She touched his arm. “It was just after being hit on all evening, I was feeling, well…It was a callous thing to say.”
    He nodded, saying nothing, his back rigid as he stared through those dark, sightless glasses.
    Uneasily she said, “It’ll take time.” She began backing away.