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sputtered.
    I was extremely glad I’d decided to consult my good friend because now I felt so-o-o much better.
    At least I had her ancient, forty pound laptop in my arms. Did it even have a word processing program loaded?

    ****

    Later that evening
    Mr. Pizza must have deliberately planned my punishment — I refused to consider it a date — so quickly, knowing it gave me too little time to worm my way out of the deal.
    Well, I needn’t get all dressed up, since the normal warm weather dining attire for Verdeville females was tank tops, cut-offs, and flip flops. I seriously considered making myself a little extra unappealing so this guy would lose the scent and hunt elsewhere. But that notion lasted only two seconds. Though nowhere near a beauty queen, I had good skin, noticeable curves, and nice legs — and I couldn’t let myself appear in public as ratty as some of the women I’d spotted at the Laundry-Mat.
    However, I wasn’t likely to see anyone I knew at the pizza place, so I figured to go unadorned — neat and presentable but bland. My hair was clean but pulled back to a plain pony tail; I removed my contacts and wore glasses. Figured I’d cover up as much as possible for May weather, so I selected a long-sleeved Henley and my fat jeans that were a full size too big since I’d slimmed down again.
    If that outfit didn’t scare him off, nothing would.
    It only took about fifteen minutes to reach the mall. When I arrived at the restaurant, Mr. Pizza was leaning on the front of his Chevy pickup, which showed several years, numerous dents, and obviously lots of miles.
    Great, he’s a pauper too . Why hadn’t I found a rich guy to take my place in line? He was in boots and clean jeans, with a blue denim shirt… long sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Not sure why tanned and hairy forearms turned me on, but they did — even on presumed serial killers.
    I could tell he’d noticed my deliberately bland appearance but he offered no comment, just some blah-blah that he was glad I showed up. Right . It threw me that he had no reaction, however, because if he’d said anything about my clothes or hair, I could’ve unloaded on him. But all he did was look into my eyes… and every time he made that contact, I thought he was sucking information directly from my brain. Spooky .
    We were seated quickly and our meal arrived within about five minutes of our order. But everything felt awkward because I resented being there and wanted to be certain he knew it. He tried to initiate small talk a few times, but my replies were terse and chilly. Wondering when it would be acceptable for me to leave, I picked at my pizza slices and wished I’d remembered my watch. Checking my cell phone for the time would be too obvious. Finally, I deliberately dropped a napkin so I could lean way over and examine his fancy runner’s timepiece. It was a bit after 7:30 p.m.
    After about half an hour of being awful to the man who’d trapped me into eating with him, I started feeling guilty and decided to act half-way civilized. He noticed the change immediately.
    During the next half hour, while I was about fifty percent civilized, I allowed conversation, though it remained superficial. He revealed very little about himself except his name, Brett Hardy , that he’d entered the military after college, and he was presently in graduate school at Tennessee State University in Nashville.
    â€œWhat on earth are you doing in Verdeville? We’re at least thirty-five miles from that campus.”
    â€œI didn’t want to live in the big city and I only have to commute three mornings a week. My other courses are online.” He fiddled with his napkin. “Not taking a full load, because I also work part time.” He didn’t say where, so I figured he probably flipped burgers or delivered pizzas… possibly from the same place where we were dining.
    â€œWhat are