She put on a little blue dress that both was comfortable and looked halfway decent. It fell exactly between her two clothing classifications: “dressing for me” and “dressing for them.” It was very hard to find a miracle dress like this, but she had accumulated three. This one had a little burn hole on the lower left side, but she was pretty sure nobody would notice.

She applied her makeup, checking on the steady progress of her blemish, and blow-dried her hair. She turned the dryer off four times while she was using it because she kept thinking she heard the phone ringing, but it never was. Then she put on some black high heels—which she felt firmly planted her outfit in the “dressing for them” category—and left for the restaurant she had selected: the Hamburger Hamlet on Beverly Drive.

About a block from the Hamlet, she found herself driving behind an enormous Bentley, the driver of which appeared to be on the phone. Staring at the back of his barbered head, Suzanne suddenly knew with absolute certainty that he was her lunch date. She tried to keep alive the possibility that she was wrong, but when he signaled his turn into the parking lot, she was overcome with dread. Could she drive around the corner to the Safeway and call the restaurant and tell Al Hawkins she was sick?

No. She’d already canceled and rescheduled this lunch three times. She had to go. “Oh, well, maybe I’ll learn something,” she thought philosophically as she handed her keys to the valet. She imagined herself smoking serenely on a pipe and gazing off to sea and saying, “Well, yeah, sure, he was an asshole, but he wasn’t your typical asshole. I really learned something that day at the Hamlet.”

The instant she walked into the restaurant she heard a loud New York voice bark, “Suzanne?” Sure enough, it was the skipper of the SS Bentley.

“Al Hawkins?” she asked meekly.

“The same,” bellowed Al, shaking her hand. “Why don’t we go to the table? Miss?” he called to a waitress. “Is our table ready? Thanks.”