Two flirts from the tiny bar. She ignored them, though she ignored one less stridently than the other. It was the fellow sitting by himself at the end. He was a slim guy, pale – only-goes-out-at-night kind of skin. Painter or sculptor or some other artist, she guessed. Handsome, though there might be a weak-chin factor if he looked down. Piercing eyes. They offered one of those glances. Samantha called them ‘laps’, as in a dog lapping up food.

She got a chill. Because the look went on a little too long and then got scary.

He was undressing her, looking over her body.

She regretted tapping his eyes with hers. And continued quickly to the most challenging route the restaurant offered: the narrow stairway down to the restrooms in the basement.

Clunk, clunk …

She made it.

Dark and quiet down here, clean, which had surprised her the first time she’d come to the place. The people who’d renovated had spent plenty of time making the dining rooms rough-edged rustic (yeah, we get it: French and American countryside), but the bathrooms were pure SoHo. Slate, recessed lighting, ornamental grasses for decoration. Mapplethorpe on the walls but nothing too weird. No whips, no butts.

Samantha walked to the W, tried the door.

Locked. She grimaced. Provence2 wasn’t big but no fucking restaurant in the world should have a single-occupancy women’s room. Were the owners crazy?

Creaks overhead, from footsteps on the sprung wood flooring. Muted voices.

Thinking of the man at the bar.

What was I doing, looking back at him like that? Jesus. Be a little smarter. Okay? Why flirt? You’ve got Elliott from work. He isn’t a dream boy but he’s decent and dependable and watches PBS. Next time he asks, say yes. He has those sweet eyes and he’s probably even pretty decent in bed.

Come on, I’ve gotta pee. One damn restroom?

Then, with a different pitch of creak, footsteps were coming down the stairs.

Clunk, clunk …

Samantha’s heart thudded. She knew it was the flirter, the dangerous one.

She saw boots appearing on the steps. Men’s ankle boots. Out of the ’70s. Weird.

Her head swiveled. She was at the far end of the corridor. Nowhere to go from here. No exits. What do I do if he rushes me? The decibel level in the restaurant itself was piercing; nobody would hear. I left my cell phone upstairs, I –

Then: Relax. You’re not alone. There was the bimb in the restroom. She’d hear a scream.

Besides, nobody, however horny, would risk a rape in a restaurant corridor.

More likely it would be just an Awkward Incident. The slim guy coming on too strong, pushing the flirt, growing angry, but ultimately backing off. How many dozens of times had that happened? The worst injury would be branding her a cocktease.