Sheri drummed her fingers nervously on the heavy wooden table. Her knees were rigid, her heels arched upward inside her stylish leather shoes. For the third time in the past five minutes, her pale blue eyes searched the windows hoping to see Joe’s familiar gait shadowing up the walk. She had been here nearly an hour already and was just finishing a second bowl of chips, "the best in town," or so the crooked sign on the restaurant’s wall said, especially when dipped in "the salsa that’s so addicting it should require a prescription."

   But a person could only eat so many before etiquette demanded a real order, one from the menu, one that actually cost money.

   She snapped the last chip in half and stirred the remaining salsa, then dropped both pieces haphazardly into the bowl.

   She looked at her watch again.

   Checked her pager.

   Still no messages.

   She flipped the switch to sound and put the pager back in her purse. She nestled her chin meditatively against the tops of her hands, thinking this was so unlike Joe. He was never late for anything, especially their midweek lunches at Charlie’s.