Free Impersonal Attractions by Sarah Shankman

fiction. It was real life, what made people tick, that held her fascination. People like Judge Weinberg, his poor dead niece Sondra, and the twisted, cold mind that had ended her life.
    Sam looked down at her notebook and the page on Sondra. She had covered all the white space with doodles.
    Her ice was melting. What time was it? She glanced at her watch. She’d been there for half an hour. Looked like the freeway cruiser wasn’t going to show.
    Then she felt the waiter’s eyes on her. He hurried over with a menu.
    “I didn’t want to disturb you, Miss Samantha. You looked busy.”
    She brushed aside his apology as needless and began to scan the familiar list. Should she order? She hadn’t made any plans for dinner, had thought she would just meet this man and then go home and snuggle into an old movie from the video store. She was beginning to feel a bit hungry, but she hesitated. It wasn’t likely that he would appear if he were this late, but what if he did and she were committed to dinner. She didn’t want to have to spend that kind of time with him.
    She stared across the room blankly, considering the options, when she realized that her stare was being returned.
    She started. Was it him? Was it the White Knight? No, it was that tall, handsome detective she’d passed a few times in her rounds downtown. The one who had moved out from New York not too long ago. Irish. Dark red hair. A great smile. What was his name? Sean. Sean what? Sean O’Reilly.
    He obviously had no trouble remembering her name as he strode over to her table.
    “Hello, Samantha.” He smiled down at her. “Are you alone? I mean, are you going to be alone?”
    Sam hesitated. Well, was she or wasn’t she? She didn’t know.
    “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude. I saw you and thought what a lucky coincidence it was for me. I’ve been wanting to have a chance to talk with you for quite some time.”
    How could she refuse that?
    “No, of course. I mean, you’re not intruding. I was supposed to meet someone, but obviously my friend has been held up somewhere. Please sit down.”
    Besides, she thought, if he does show up, the hell with him.
    “So,” he said as he settled in, arranging his long legs under the table, “could I interest you in some oysters and champagne to start?”
    Sam’s response was a look he couldn’t read.
    “I mean, if you’re interested in dining. If not, we could just have a drink and chat for a few minutes if you have somewhere else to be.”
    “No, that would be lovely. I’d like to. Dine, that is. The oysters would be grand.”
    “No champagne?”
    “No.”
    “Some white wine, perhaps?”
    “No.”
    He glanced at the bottle of Perrier and nodded in its direction.
    “Another?”
    “Yes, please.”
    “A dozen Belon, a dozen Apalachicola, another bottle of Perrier for the lady, and a glass of Chandon Brut for me,” he reeled off to the waiter, who smiled at Sam. She smiled back, amused. The staff at the Square never missed a trick, knew who was seeing whom, pulled for their unattached regulars. She knew the waiter couldn’t wait to get back to the service area to share the news that she had company. She wondered what they knew about Sean. Probably more than she did.
    “Do you come here often?” she wondered aloud.
    “More and more,” he said. “What’s your sign?”
    She stared at him, taken aback. Then as the smile crinkled into his dimples, she got it. He was teasing her about her stereotypical California question.
    “Burma Shave,” she said, “with an ascendant in Pepperoni. And yours?”
    “Staten Island Ferry. Very compatible.”
    “School?” she queried.
    “P.S. One-o-six. And you?”
    “Reform.”
    “Funny, I could have sworn you looked Orthodox. Hobbies?”
    “Horse.”
    “You mean heroin?”
    “No, my heroine is Superwoman.”
    “Hero?”
    “Sandwich.”
    “Dagwood.”
    “Blondie.”
    “The singer.”
    “As in sewing machine?”
    “As in jukebox.” Then they both