January 1977 – NYC

Angela stabbed three cut squares of her Belgian waffle with her fork, and slid the whole thing in her mouth. While not entirely sloshed, she did still feel a little buzz, and it seemed to be working with her newfound apathy to further obscure her feminine reserve.

Michael and his fantastic dimples smiled wide, "You're really cute, you know that?"

Angela just kept staring at him with the perfect, winged eyelinered, poker face, chewing the enormous wad in her red-rimmed mouth. "Well, we know it's not my personality that's keeping you here."

He laughed, "You really are bad at this." He shook his head, "Yeah, your legs got my attention – can't fault a guy for that," he smiled wryly. "But your personality is why I'd rather be eating a 3am breakfast in a Bronx diner, than falling into a pile of pillows at the Waldorf." He reached across the table, and used his thumb to smooth some whipped cream from her lips.

"Ah, so not the hope of company in the pillows, then?"

"Hey, I'm just eating breakfast. You can pay for yours, if it makes you feel better."

"I'd like that. Thank you," she said with a straight face.

He looked tentatively amused. "Are you mad at me for a reason?"

Angela's flexed face softened a bit, and she sighed. "I'm sorry, Michael. I've had a week." She rubbed her temples.

"So, you're not this grumpy normally, or you're not this "friendly" normally?" he said with a wiggle to his brows.

Angela gave a little chuckle, "Yeah."

"Mmm," he answered, understanding. They both ate a few more bites of their food.

"So, you're at the Waldorf?" she pressed. He nodded, finishing what was in his mouth. "Not from around here?"

Michael shook his head. "Not really. I had an apartment in Manhattan earlier this – well, last – year. But my work had me going so much, I didn't want to pay to let the ants have it."

Angela took a swig of orange juice. "What do you do?"

He smiled and shook his head. "You want me to tell you what I do, and I can't even know your last name?" Angela smiled. "Or why you've had a week?"

Her smooshed smile tilted as she thought. "Robinson. The other thing will have to wait." She yawned, and stretched her back.

"Eye for an eye," he nodded. "That's fair. I'm an assistant producer for The Geographic Institute." At her confused look, he said, "I make animal documentaries. I was in Africa until August, tracking the breeding of snakes." Her face turned from growing curiosity to mock disgust. He chuckled. "But I've been in the editing room since I've been back - That's what makes me shudder. I've been in some extended stay places, because I could get sent out again at any time, and I really just didn't want to bother getting a place. But I felt like living it up for the holidays."

Angela nodded, "Interesting."

"Your turn."

She sighed. "I'm an MBA, working as a junior VP for Wallace & McQuade."

"You're an MBA?" he smirked.

"I'm an MBA," she held his gaze, the sacred adrenaline of the pissed giving her a second wind.

"Wow…Didn't see that coming," he chuckled.

She squinted her eyes.

"You mad at me again?"

"Not again. Now. Before I was mad about something else. Now, I'm mad at you."

"Oh, come on, Angela." He threw his hands up, and let out a confused laugh. "You look like a Playboy bunny." Her eyes widened in disbelief. "I'm supposed to assume you're a physicist or something?"

A part of her that she couldn't squash was utterly flattered. She'd always wanted to be taken seriously as a sexy woman. And then an equally real part of her was furious because she felt unduly dismissed.

Regrouping, Angela spoke steadily, "I look like someone whose best friend died, and who's just trying to get a break." She slid out of the booth, and started to walk away. He scooted out just as fast.

"Hey-" he stepped up right behind her.

Angela spun around, and scowled up at him, inches away. "But thank you, for a few mindless hours." She looked him up and down, and shook her head. "It really is a shame that such a pretty man houses such an asshole."

She handed the waitress a ten dollar bill, knowing it would pay for her meal several times over. "That's for my meal and a tip." She turned toward Michael. "He," she said turning back to the waitress, "is an old-fashioned guy, and would prefer to pay for his own food." She snatched her coat from the coatrack, and stepped into the phone booth to call a cab.

Michael just stood there in stunned silence. Finally, he walked up to the counter, and paid for his food. When she got out of the booth, he walked over to her.

"Angela, wait," he gently reached out and touched her sleeve. "Is that true? Did you just lose your best friend?"

She looked up at him cautiously, her eye makeup newly smeared in all directions. "Shit," Michael looked up to the ceiling, and squeezed his eyes shut. He breathed, and returned his gaze to Angela. "I'm sorry."

Angela had no capacity for defense. But his plea gave her pause, and she searched his eyes for flippancy. Finding none, she exhaled and looked down.

"Me, too," she said after a second. She rubbed the bridge of her nose. "It really has been a hell of a week."

"I'll bet…" They stood by the door, not proceeding in any direction, just collecting themselves. In the silence, they could hear faint singing and noise makers from far off in the night.

Michael broke the silence, and reached for her hand. Trying a little laugh to lighten the mood, he tried, "Hey, so, I've embarrassed myself enough at this place, but every diner in town is open tonight. Do you want to try another one…or a club, or something? Talk a little more?"

"Thanks, Michael. But I'd really just rather go home." The mirage had lifted, and sadness was front and center again.

Michael looked extremely uncomfortable, and stepped in to hug her. She didn't stop him, but didn't really participate. He sighed. "You can't drive home; I don't know what you had back there, but my guess is it was significant."

"I called a cab."

He nodded. "Can I wait with you?" She nodded back.

They sat outside on the cement steps in front of the diner. Even in her wool overcoat, Angela was shaking, though from cold or emotional release, she couldn't tell. Michael put his arm around her, and held her close. After a few tense seconds, she relaxed and melted completely into him. She was exhausted.

He held her until the cab pulled up. Shaking her gently, he said, "Angela. Your ride's here."

"Mmm?" she could barely pry her eyes open.

He tried to help her to the car. "I can't send you like this." He opened the door for her. "This is crazy…Where are you headed?"

"Cos Cob," she said quietly, her eyes still shut.

"Greenwich? You wanna take a half hour cab ride to the sticks - alone, half-drunk, in the middle of the night? Are you nuts?" He looked at the driver. "No offense."

"Look. I'm tired," she said a little louder. "Just let me go home," she said, working hard to stay upright.

"Tomorrow. Tonight, you're with me," Michael decided. He looked at the cabbie. "Can you take us to the Waldorf?"

The cabbie waved them in. "Yeah, yeah. Hurry up; it's freezing!"

Michael helped Angela in, and then scooted in and put his arm back around her. Angela breathed easily with her head on Michael's chest, and the ride was over before she wanted it to be. Waking her up again, Michael helped her out and paid the driver.

Michael held her around the waist all the way up to his room. He fumbled trying to get his key in the lock with only his right hand, while his left held her propped against his hip.

He shuffled her in to the couch, and plopped her down. "Is there someone you need to call or anything? A roommate?"

Angela rubbed her forehead and nodded. "My mother." He brought the phone as close as the cord would stretch.

"Hey, I'm gonna take a shower. I'll be out in a minute."

He came out a few minutes later with a towel wrapped around his waist, rubbing another one through his wet hair. "That really will cure what ails ya," he said pointing a thumb back toward the bathroom.

"Don't mind if I do," she attempted to articulate through a wide-mouth yawn.

"I can get you a t-shirt, if you want."

"I'll just use one of their robes. Thanks." Angela found herself having a hard time not looking him over, and just decided to focus on the floor as she ambled clunkily toward the bathroom.

"Suit yourself," Michael shrugged.

When she got to the doorframe, she turned around. "Do you need to call anyone?" she asked curiously.

He smirked, "I thought we were doing eye for an eye?"

"Hey, I gave you a biggie."

He chuckled, "Yeah, you did." He paused, "No, I don't need to check in with anyone. Though…I guess…I could call my cameraman, Tim. He was there with me at the Catcall. I could try him at home…let him know we made it to the hotel safely."

"Don't you dare!" Angela laughed. Michael grinned.

"Take your shower, MBA."

Angela snatched a pillow from the sitting chair to the left of the bathroom, and threw it at him, smiling.

She emerged from a steamy bathroom 20 minutes later. It may not have cured what ailed her, but it sure helped. She felt refreshed and more alert, though sleep still seemed provocative. Michael was laying in pajama bottoms on top of the covers with his eyes shut.

Although already secured with a knot at the waist, Angela pulled the fluffy, white robe tighter around her. She cleared her throat, and he opened one of his eyes dramatically at her. She smiled.

"Where should I sleep?"

"Eh, you take the bed. I'll take the couch."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, it's pretty big…for a couch…" Michael grabbed a pillow from the bed, and moped over to the couch, flicking the lights off as he went.

"You're such a baby," Angela said shaking her head, fairly amused at his fake-pouting.

"I am not…I'm a businessman." She frowned a little as he settled himself under a throw blanket.

"What?"

"Yeah. I figure, you get the bed, so you can pay for the room tonight," he grinned at her.

Angela rolled her eyes. "So much for being gentleman," she said with her mouth tipped.

"I don't remember claiming to be a gentleman…Though I admit, I wonder if I am one… It is a mystery to me why I'm not following every instinct in my body right now, and trying to convince you finish what we started on the dance floor."

Angela grinned shyly, and looked down. Climbing under the covers, she sat up. "Michael?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks," she said quietly.

"Thank you."

"For what?"

He propped his arms behind his head. "I'm going to have the best dreams tonight."