Dinner went fine enough. As it turned out she was a fan of seafood, which worked out nicely for Bob. There was a Red Lobster at the edge of an overurbanized concrete jungle, the farthest point of which was capped off by a sprawling and eternally busy Wal-Mart. The Red Lobster sat next to an Olive Garden, which sat next to a Best Buy, which sat next to a Petland. The sprawl went this way for another mile or so, until it abruptly gave way to farmlands on one side of the road and a country club on the other.

They pulled into the parking lot, and he tried hard to remember the last time he'd even had seafood.

Had to be the first date with Lindy. Yes, it had to be, he thought as he jogged around the Mustang's side and opened the door for her.

Had to be the first date because Lindy was wearing that paisley button-down you got her for her twenty-first.

Jesus. They had been young and stupid and horny. Fourteen years ago. Jesus.

What a night that was. They had literally walked into the store, Lindy's eyes were wide, and she seemed to gallop through the racks when Bob had said the words, "whatever you want." She enjoyed her retail, Bob recalled and shook his head slowly. To the detriment of his pocketbook.

But that didn't matter anymore, he supposed. That was then and this was now. And in the very important Now, Bob was gentlemanly—as was his wont when out on the town—and extended his hand to help Sarah out of the car.

Christmas was still a week out, and snow had been falling quietly, without reprieve, for some time—Bob didn't really care to notice. He was merely pleased that the Mustang hadn't succumbed to the terribly obvious design flaw in rear-wheel drive and slid off the road. Yet.

Sally grabbed his hand and stepped out, testing the asphalt for ice as she did and pulling her coat tight.

When she had arrived at his place earlier in the night she was wearing dark bootcut denims and a burgundy sweater. He'd guessed she'd either just rolled out of bed or just come from work. He'd tossed open the door and feigned surprise and thanked her for being prompt. She had gone in, unbidden, carrying a garment bag over one shoulder. "Hi, Bob," she'd said, still in fourth gear, "is there a place I can change?"

He directed her to the upstairs guest room and returned to the kitchen to finish off a half-drunk mug of coffee. And twenty minutes later she'd come down those steps, walking slowly and purposefully. She'd replaced the fleece and denims with brown jackboots, a knee-length pleated wool skirt the color of ash, and a black sweater bunched at the neck to resemble a turtleneck. The skinny black librarian glasses still hung at the end of her nose, and she wore no makeup.

She didn't need to.

He stood in front of the bathroom mirror, buttoning down the Oxford and pressing the pinpoints close to his neck. He took a deep breath and pulled the sweater on—cashmere; silver and green argyle, covering a darker blue Oxford. The white trousers made Brooks Brothers come alive, and for a moment in frozen time Bob felt acutely and unassailably suburban.

By the time he got back downstairs, she was in the den, sitting in the chaise lounge and playfully stoking the fire.

Together, they looked like a couple of overdressed university students, and neither seemed to care.

The hostess strolled dutifully across the dining room and stopped at a table for four, clicking her heels as she did and eliciting a small chuckle from Bob.

"Will this be alright?" the hostess asked and made it seems as though they had a choice.

"Yes," Bob said softly. "Thank you." He waited for Sally to remove her overcoat before he sat, and she tossed it in an open chair at her left. It occurred to him that he should have pulled out her chair for her, and he frowned at the missed opportunity.

The self-doubt went away as their waiter came to the side of the table with the same military precision as the hostess had. He was tall and square, features dark, with a faint and narrow line of stubble following the angle of his jaw. His hair was plastered with gel and stood nearly vertical as it formed a widow's peak. The sleeves on his white Oxford were rolled to the elbow, and his tie looked askew and loose—as if he had loosened it as a tic or out of exhaustion. He'd been busy. Or wanted to give the illusion thereof.

Sarah glanced over the menu for only a moment and then handed it back to him. "A cosmo, please," she said, "with a lemon."

He gave a mechanical smile and looked at Bob, who felt sporting and wanted to waste this guy's time. "Um…I think… I will have a Long Island, please."

The waiter took Bob's menu and asked if he wanted soda in it.

Bob said, "Surprise me."

The waiter smiled again and tapped two fingers on the table's edge and started away. "My name's Bryan, if you need anything," he said.

Sarah said, "thank you" and he was already leaving. Her eyes traced him across the dining room and only went back to Bob when Bryan slid between two flop-hinge doors and into the kitchen.

"Long Island," she said and rested her chin on angled supporting arms. "Interesting choice."

"How do you figure?"

"When I was in college, the Long Island was the province of the sorority sisters who took showers at eight pm every night and went out, unless there was an exam the next day, in search of Mister Right."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, unless Mister Right turned out to be a dick, or they weren't interested. More often than not, I think, Mister Right turned out being Mister Right For The Night."

"And how would you know all this?" Bob asked, as sporting as before.

"I wouldn't." She smiled one of those smiles where only one side of the mouth curled up. Amused, probably annoyed. "I spent all four years in Dean's List territory. The library was a close personal friend. You ever date a librarian, Bob? Even one of the student ones?"

He shook his head and said he hadn't. "Try not to start," she warned, but didn't seem bitter about the experience. "They're the kinds of guys that'd quote you a sonnet mid-coitus."

Bob chortled loudly, one of those loud 'Hah!' moments that instantly embarrassed him. He looked around sheepishly and drank the table water.

"Sorry," she said. "Too much information."

Hey at least she's not above telling you about the myriad and many horrible old boyfriends she's had. And she's a dish, too, Sentry! What mouth-breathing idiot cocked that up, huh?

He waved one hand, and his eyes went to her hands, fluttering about as she spoke, and he noticed she wasn't wearing the ring she had been the other day at the restaurant.

"You don't have to apologise to me, Sarah." In his head it sounded far more subdued and far more assertive, but it only came out as a poor imitation of Charlie Brown or some other notable among History's Meekest.

He drank the table water, and his hunch made him look miserly. Like he didn't belong in the company of a comparatively radiant, and she was, positively, woman.

"Are you alright?" She asked and seemed to actually care. That was rare for him. Probably for her too. "You seem tense."

"No," he said too fast. "It's just…"

Speak in full sentences, Sentry. You're losing her.

(Shut up)

He looked at her. And then at Bryan the Chiseled Waiter, reappearing at the end of a row of booths carrying a tray with two drinks on it. Her cosmo and his Long Island. And back at her.

"No," he said. "It's just that I don't want to say something stupid."

Bryan set the drinks on the table and didn't make a sound. Sally gave him a curt "thank you" and sipped her cosmopolitan immediately. She looked at Bob and her eyes did that soul-searching thing again. "Well. If it makes you feel any better, Bob, try not to think of this as a date, or me as someone you have to impress." Bob narrowed his eyes and smiled. She was still beautiful even in full-on amusement mode, and that was okay for him. She was comfortable.

"Anyway," she added. "As far as impressing goes, you already have."

There it was.

"Is that so?"

(Who talks like that?)

"Yeah." She was nonplussed, and maybe even a little amused by him. It was okay, too. He was captivated by her. Everything seemed to line up just right. Even her perfume seemed to hit all the right notes. Estee Lauder—the cheap stuff—but she pulled it off well enough. She smiled.

And reached a slender and bronzen hand across the table, laying it on top of his own and squeezing ever so slightly. "You got me out to dinner," she said. "And you didn't do it stupidly, you know? It was sweet."

He was intrigued. And surprised. "I'm inclined to doubt that." He made it sound half-ass academic.

She sounded genuine, and he wondered what had happened to her five years ago.

"And maybe I was aiming for just enough so you wouldn't be totally crushed if I told you no," she said. "You're a nice guy, Bob. Consider me used to the dicks. The dicks who're always on their cellphones and too busy to spend time with people."

"I wouldn't know."

"Oh," she said and looked deflated.

"It's a long story. I'll have to tell you some time," she said and smiled fake. She waved a hand and then sighed curtly. "You're different. In a good way."

She gave him a measured look, like she was trying to discern an unasked and unanswered question on her own.

He leaned back in his seat.

Pause.

She leaned forward and grabbed his hand, as if to say she was committing. Not letting go. Not giving up.

"You haven't taken your eyes off me since we sat down, or even since we met at the restaurant, and that was a month ago. Okay? I'm a smart woman. So why don't you tell me what's on your mind, there, Bobbo?"

He breathed in once and lamented that. He had left his life in New York behind, but all his problems…the voices…seemed to be already waiting for him in Ohio. His eyes darted around.

I think it's your turn now. Bob.

No need to tell her the truth. No need to lie. His eyes narrowed and he committed himself:

"My life's really….complex. I...I just wanted some lunch, you know? And then I met you, and for some reason I don't really understand, it was…I wanted to see you again, and I haven't felt that way about anyone in years. So I thought…I said to myself, 'she's nice, see what happens.' Like a little kid who dips his big toe into the deep end to test the water, you know?"

She nodded.

"Of course you know," he said and waved a hand and sipped the Long Island again. "Anyway, asking you to dinner was the next step. I'm not quite sure what the step after this is. Well, I think I know but I—"

"Bob," she said and squeezed his hand again

She stood and took the seat at Bob's immediate right. And stared right into his eyes. It was at this point that Bob noticed the brilliant green behind the skinny black librarian glasses.

Green.

Like Lindy.

She leaned forward and kissed him. Quick and relatively painless.

And Bob didn't feel so flustered anymore. He smiled thinly at her. The kiss had been brief and unexpected and wonderful, and it took Bob back in time.

Before Lindy.

Before the serum. Before the drugs.

There were times, certainly, when he wished he could remember what it was like back then. High School. His first kiss (which he was about ninety-seven percent sure had been with Lindy). Driver's licences. The first beer he ever drank underage and how stupid he must have looked.

At the age of sixteen, in suburban New York, there were worse things than Lite Beer. Worse things…so much so that by the time he was a college freshman, he was an emaciated shell of himself.

He wished he could remember why. Why he thought those things were…important.

Quickly he drove the thoughts away. Everything tonight had gone pretty well, he thought.

He'd successfully divested himself from New York. He had a car, and a house, and a dinner date. All those great suburban things people want.

(Right?)

He chuckled to himself.

It wasn't even a matter of wooing. Not for Bob Reynolds, who didn't need to woo. He had natural charisma or so he guessed. Charisma—that had been what Lindy called it, and even, he supposed, the clinical term for compulsive affability. His ability to win over, charm and otherwise endear people to himself. Despite being, for the most part for most of high school and college up until breaking into the Professor's lab, a drug-addicted walking derelict.

Perhaps it was an offshoot, a side effect, of the Professor's formula that enhanced the charisma. That soothing feeling. The only thing Bob or anyone else knew of that could calm Bruce Banner's anger.

Bob sighed.

As Bryan the Chiseled Waiter came, as Sarah and Bob placed their orders both for the grilled Tilapia and Bob finished what was left of the Whiskey Sour, he couldn't keep the thoughts out.

He watched Bryan stroll away, and looked back at Sarah.

She reminded him of Lindy in so many ways. In too many ways.

And he couldn't stop wondering if it was The Sentry doing all the talking.

If he could just switch off the Sentry sometimes.

If his stupid and ill-gotten powers, the same ones that calmed Banner, were also working to calm Sarah.

And if that was the case, who was really charming whom here? And who was she falling for?

Continued...