Bob tossed the shopping bags in the Mustang's trunk and leaned against the fender for a moment. Parked in a street-level lot, he paused for a moment and stared down the street, and wondered what he could do next to occupy himself.

To keep the voices away, Sentry?

Directly ahead of him was a Starbucks. Various holiday displays the color of silver and red were stacked in the windows, interrupted every few feet by small two-person tables with customers busily idling away their day and their money. Undesirable, Bob thought. He wanted actual food, not mere scones or lattes.

Down the street from Starbucks and Brooks was a tan and brown building with stark lettering across the roof—Panera Bread, it read, in bold and cartoonish white letters. Café and Bakery.

He cocked his head curiously and started walking for the restaurant. Whimsically, he thought, he needed some down time.

Not that he lacked down time. He'd had plenty of it in the past month. And despite everything he had done since leaving Manhattan—the house, the Mustang, the redecoration—everything he'd done to occupy his time and his mind, he still felt slightly exposed. If he wasn't being watched per se, then the feeling was certainly on his mind.

He was worried, and he knew he shouldn't be.

As he pushed the doors open and stepped into the restaurant, he stopped at stared at the menus, slightly illegible things mounted high on the wall behind the cashier's counters and bakery. Bob's brow curled in concentration; he had no idea what he wanted.

He came to the counter warily, his eyes still searching the menus for something. Anything. Something eye-catching.

"Hi there," a feminine voice said. "Can I help you?"

Bob looked at the cashier: a petite brunette, hair slightly messy from the day's work and bundled tightly at the crown of her skull; curled strands of hair hung at her temples—probably the limits of her styling abilities or desires. She worked, he guessed. A lot. And probably didn't have time for meticulous personal presentation. Still, he thought, she was tidy, or looked it. Like…she took care of herself. Capable. Joan of Arc except less completely gung-ho.

She's also not wearing one of those wage-slave uniforms—nosireebob, this one's management, such as it can be in a place like this. How many wage-slaves do we know, Bob, who wear white button-downs and night-black skirts and heels to work—especially if she's on her feet all day taking orders?

(Stop calling them wage slaves)

Her eyes were deep-set and blue and small rectangular glasses, cast in black plastic, hung precariously at the upturned end of her nose. Her lips were the color of deep merlot and yet looked natural, and they were curled in a thin and perfectly practiced smile.

The Good Employee.

"Yes," he said shortly. "I'm afraid I've never been here before."

She nodded once, slowly, and said, "We get that a lot here."

"I bet you do. Any recommendations?"

She turned and looked at the hoisted menus, and was silent for a long moment, as if ordering for herself. "Are you a fan of turkey?"

"Sure." Bob had never actually had it. Then again, there's a lot you haven't had. He looked at the high menus again, and then back at her. "What's the Sierra Turkey?"

"It's good."

"Really?"

"Yeah, it's worth your time," she said. "Can I put you down for one?" She inflected the end of the sentence to give it a vaguely cute and inquisitive ring. She was playing with him.

"Sure," Bob said with little hesitation. He looked to the left quickly and saw a row of glass jars. He pointed a thumb at them and asked, "Tea?"

"Sure. I'll get you some hot water."

His eyebrows flashed as she turned away. He didn't mean it as an order—how presumptive of her. He glanced over the row of glass jars for a second and picked the one nearest to him.

She came back a moment later with a black mug in her hands. She handed it carefully to Bob, who blew the curling wisps of steam away and dipped a Ceylon bag in the solution.

"Thank you," he said and stepped away from the counter slowly, not really sure if the tea was steeping out or not.

As Bob loitered about the pick-up counter for his sandwich, he took intermittent sips from his tea. He stole childish and voyeuristic glances at her every few seconds.

Brunette, Sentry. And pretty. And those eyes—come on. This is something, isn't it?

(Yes. It is)

Who does she remind you of, Sentry?

(Shut up.)

A harsh teenage voice came over the speakers. "Bob, your order is ready." Then the same teenager's pasty and sinewy arm slid the tray holding Bob's sandwich onto the counter. He gave a small and inaudible thank you, and took the tray in one hand.

She was hovering about the register, counting receipts or doing something vaguely similar that entailed holding a pile of them in one hand and tallying up totals on a notepad—he wasn't sure what. He sipped the Ceylon again and started for one of the many empty tables near her—settling on a low-rise one near the fireplace and its orange-glowing focal point—and slid into the seat. He arched his back and his peacoat slid off his shoulders. He didn't bother hanging it over the back of his seat.

He started in on the Sierra Turkey, sipping his tea and stealing glances at her every few minutes.

She was nice to you, Sentry. Who else has been so nice? Ever?

(Oh she was not. She was being a good employee)

Well maybe you two can play Mister and Missus Good Employee again sometime, hm?

(Drop it)

Drink your tea. When you're done, she's going to come over here and ask you very politely if you'd like another. Say yes, and play up your own stupid little James Bond factor that you think endears you to the opposite sex.

(You think you know everything about me, don't you?)

Someone should.

Bob let out a quick sigh and clenched his jaw. He put his sandwich down, and looked abruptly over at the cashier. She had taken up the register again, and was now listening to a portly man's laundry-list order. She looked bored. Her head darted, almost birdlike, around the room, locked on Bob and when she figured she was looking too long she quickly went back to the fat customer.

Bob angled in his seat and sat back. He rested his chin in one hand. When the portly man's order was finished, he shuffled away and hiked up his pants. She looked over the rest of the dining area before looking over at Bob again.

He smiled thinly, and wondered what he must look like. Another thing to be amused about.

Bob looked at his mug, and noticed it was empty. He looked back at her—she had retreated behind the counter again. He smiled slowly and genuinely, the kind of smile where it's so wide that it pushes the skin beneath his eyes up and makes them narrow. He eyed her thoughtfully.

Like an iceberg. A mystery.

Oh you idiot.

He chortled, despite himself, and bussed his empty tray to the garbage. As he pushed the glass door open and slid out silently, he raised his hand to her in a single wave. She caught the move and waved back, and cocked her head slowly and curiously and imperceptibly.

He went back to Panera for lunch the next day, and every weekday thereafter for the next month. Just to see her. For the first two weeks, she had been there. And then she wasn't. Sick, one of the other employees said, and Bob tuned him out. Bob wanted fondly to speak to her again.

As he retrieved his lunch from the order counter and sat at the same table he'd sat at for the month before, he paused for a moment and looked out the window.

It was snowing. A thin layer had already dusted the Mustang and the gunmetal grey finish.

She was hovering a foot away from him before he even registered movement. The breach in his own little personal protocol unsettled him. How was she able to slide under the radar?

Why are you overanalyzing this, Sentry?

She smiled. "Can I get you another tea?"

He looked at her eyes and was genuinely grateful that she'd asked.

See? She's talking to you, that's something.

His defenses, paltry though they were, began to roll back. "Yes," he said and tightened his jaw to stifle the grin.

She tilted her head to a playful angle and pivoted on one heel. Gone to get his refill.

He reached for his wallet.

(This is too easy. This is too easy. People like that don't talk to people like me. Something's wrong here)

For the love of Christ, Sentry, get off of it. You should be so lucky she's talking to you—that anyone's talking to you! She doesn't even know who you are! Hell, for all she knows you could rock her world. Step one, Sentry, get over yourself. Step two, ask her out.

(She's probably…involved)

Did you see any rings on those skeletal and leathery things she calls fingers?

Bob's head jerked to one side when he heard her heels clicking on the floor tiles.

She was strolling toward him with confidence. The glass of hot water in her hand was motionless, even through her walking. When she met the carpeted section, her clicking heels fell silent. She set the mug down where it had been before, and produced another Ceylon bag.

He looked at the bag, and then at her. "Thank you." It sounded inorganic.

(Try harder, Bob)

"You're welcome," she said.

As an afterthought, Bob looked around the restaurant. An older couple sat side by side in a booth on the far side of the dining room, taking great interest in a shared breadbowl of soup—what kind he couldn't tell.

"Wait."

(Shit.)

"I mean. You can have a seat. If you have the time."

Tentatively she did.

"There. Comfy," he said.

(Weak.)

She narrowed her gaze and settled in, hunching forward. "That was pretty slick."

He laughed once, out loud, at that. "Yeah, I know."

"Any more tricks up your sleeve? As in…why you've been coming to my restaurant every day for a month and ordering the same thing."

He saw no point in lying. "To see you."

She sat back in the chair and laughed her own monosyllable. And then: "You must be joking."

Bob found himself staring into her eyes, and mentally snapped out of it. Shaking his head and playing the not-grotesquely-ignorant card, he said, "Well, maybe I went a little too fast."

She shook her head slowly in that mixture of annoyance and amusement.

(And yet…)

She didn't let her armor loosen around him. Maybe that was something.

He sipped the tea and kept his gaze locked on her.

Funny, isn't it? You could use some laughter, Sentry.

Her eyes narrowed and he gave a brief scoff. "You don't waste time, do you?"

"Well, you have an honest face," he said and made it sound playful as before. And she kept smiling. Flattered.

She's unflappable, Sentry. Unmoveable. Maybe even impressed by you—at first sight, no less. Should I complete the logical loop and call her an iceberg? Or shall I dig up Lindy's corpse as a visual aid?

After a while she said, "Thanks." She gave a fake smile and reached one hand across the table, and clasped Bob's sales slip between her index and middle fingers. She brought it to her eyes and read. "Reynolds…is there a first name to go with that?"

"It should say on there," he hinted.

"Bob," she supplied and gave him the Cute version of the Look of Death.

He nodded. "Or Robert. Whichever you prefer."

"Bob." She made it roll off her tongue and gave it the same playful inflection she had given everything else since Bob first walked in. Since he first laid eyes on her. "I like it," she said. "Simple. Easy to remember."

"So I hear…"

"Sarah." She put her hand out. It was bronze and skeletal, and a silver-banded ring was almost dangling off the ring finger. He shook it lightly.

"Let me ask you something," Bob said and played off the quickness with which the words came.

(Remember the meditation)

"Sarah," he added and emphasized it. "Are you busy tomorrow night?"

She stood, her arms falling slowly to her side and staying there.

Way to go, Sentry.

"I'm working," she said. She could have been lying, but there was something to her eyes. There was honesty there. And, if she was toying with him, playing cute or genuinely interested in breaking a stranger's heart, maybe even a spark of the irreverent.

He followed her move, and pulled on his coat. His eyes danced briefly over her shoulder and glanced out the window. At the thin coat of snow on the Mustang, and on the parking lot, and on the street, and how slowly the cars seemed to move.

"Until when," he asked.

"Seven."

"Why don't we get dinner after that? My treat."

She scoffed and said, "Sure, your place or mine?"

No way to play it now but the wrong way, Sentry. Use some of that dreadful Bond routine and get her to say yes.

"Pick you up here?"

"No," she said and meant it, and Bob took it to mean her conscious decision to keep personal and work lives separate. He could respect that. "I'll come to your place."

His head lifted a bit.

(This was too easy. Things don't happen this way. Not for us)

"Ten thirty six Mockingbird," he said. "Off of county road 14, north of here."

"You're kidding." Her eyes widened a bit as she spoke.

His eyes darted around in their sockets. "Um. Am I?"

"Mockingbird," she said and waited for him to understand the absent punchline. "Get it?"

Bob shook his head. Sarah moved toward the counter and rolled the sleeves up on her Oxford/sweater combo. "Nevermind." She smiled, and began punching numbers in the register. "I'll see you tomorrow night."

Continued...