This was terrible. He had the latest copy of Vogue on the table before him, and was trying very nonchalantly to read it without holding up the cover for the world to see, but there was a lot of noise and laughter coming from the table next to him. He couldn't even make it past the first sentence, which was a promising one about the new pastels.

He had just wanted a nice, relaxing meal away from work, and here were these farm-folk, with their lanky and slack-jawed midwestern affability, with their guffaws and the clinking of silverware. He hadn't asked for this, had he? He hadn't come in here interested in doing research. He just wanted to eat clam-cakes and read Vogue. And maybe meet a nice young woman who would be free tomorrow night, because tomorrow night was looking very unpromising.