Sitting inside my car, drumming with my fingers across the steering wheel, I consult the digital clock to my right for a millionth time.

11h55.

11h56!

Is it too early to go in..? Perhaps she is waiting for me... I do not know her well enough to be aware of her punctuality standards. I should preserve a nonchalant attitude, but I do not want her to think I am entirely uninterested and rude, on top of that... Ugh. I listen to the song on the radio, attempting to calm down at least slightly. Eavesdropping is so much easier than this... I am parked in front of the entrance, but at the very edge of the parking lot, to watch the door inconspicuously.

Suddenly, a black Ferrari screeches into the lot, dangerously spinning and stopping between two parking lines, perfectly aligned. The driver turns the engines off and briskly steps out. With a dramatic flourish in the music that fills up the interior of my vehicle, Cheryl emerges in her overwhelming beauty from the luxurious automobile.

I try not to stare, but I cannot help it. She looks fabulous. A black headband adorns her long brown hair and she is wearing a pair of black-rimmed glasses. My eyes are anchored to her as she walks up to the coffee shop, in a dark purple formal blouse tucked inside her black pencil skirt. I am shocked to see her in, apparently, business attire, although it is not displeasing. I was expecting her to wear casual clothing. When I think about it, she was wearing a blouse and similar glasses the first time we met.

I leave my car and enter the restaurant, which is not too crowded. I get in line to order and scan the two dozen people here, looking for my lunch companion. A hand wraps around my left bicep, startling me. I violently whisk to that side, ending up face to face with Cheryl.

"Hi, Tanza! It's just me," she chuckles, and her fingers glide down the sleeve of my coat as she removes her hand from it.

"Hi! Do you know what you want to order?"

I hope my visceral reaction to physical contact did not make me appear distrustful or unreasonably nervous. I just have grown to abhor being touched unnecessarily.

"Yes! What about you?"

I nod. "Almost."

"You aren't wearing your hat!" she exclaims, pouting playfully.

"Should I have brought it?"

"I'm not complainin'. You look nice when I can see your face, too."

"You look way nicer than I do."

"Ah, really? Thanks. That's quite the compliment."

She winks at me, slightly biting into the lipstick of her lower lip. She skips forward to reach the counter, greeting the cashier with a charming grin.

After we received and paid for our meal, we settle down at a table for two. Ripping the paper enveloppe that holds a compost-appropriate fork and spoon, I commence my so-called investigation with a question that has been burning my tongue with anticipation for the last fifteen minutes,

"How's your stomach?"

"Absolutely fine. Good as new, even." The young woman laughs softly, picking up a piece of arugula that slipped out of her sandwich from her plate.

"That's really lucky, your friend must be one hell of a medic."

I pierce the plastic cover of my drink with the paper straw it came with, inserting it sufficiently.

"Jealous already? You know, I have a lot of friends, it's only gonna get worse from here!"

Her smile is broad, and she carefully inserts the morsel of arugula into her mouth, noticeably pleased by my intrusive query.

"I'm not the jealous type. At least, I don't think."

I take a sip of my peanut butter smoothie, relishing its sweet and salty taste.

"How is it?"

"It's great. You're not allergic to peanuts, right?"

Why would I ask something so irrevocably stupid? Almost every item on the 'Salty Cups''s menu is nut-based. Clearly, I meant it as a joke, but I doubt it is incredibly funny.

"No. If I were, this wouldn't have been the best choice of restaurant."

She picks up an uneven slab of almond nougat from her small dessert plate, proceeding to nip it. I notice that her nails are still painted with black French tips.

"Sorry, that was a stupid joke. My humor is a little rusty when I'm hungry."

"Don't apologize. I like silly jokes and puns... Anything remotely funny, actually."

Cheryl is still nibbling on her piece of nougat, and she takes a more substantial bite. While she chews joyfully on it, I begin eating my grilled chicken sandwich. After an elongated slurp of her pistachio matcha latte, she asks me:

"Do you ever eat here?"

"Not here, but at the one on Manhattan. I try to go as much as I can. I really like the food, but I don't eat out a lot. Do you come here usually?"

I scoop a small mouthful of my shredded carrots salad, eating it while she replies: "Yes, maybe a few times every month. I work close by, and it's always way more fun to get out of my office. Eating alone feels so lonely, you know. I normally skip lunch altogether if I'm just going to sit by myself in a room." The young woman encompasses my face with her sparkling green stare, adding, "How long have you lived in Gotham?"

Her eyes remain focused on me as she rips off a generous bite of her croissant sandwich with her teeth.

This is fantastic. In all appearances, Cheryl is learning about me, but I can use her curiosity and turn her questions against her.

"It's only been a few years, I started renting the place where I live now when I got my job at the hospital. What about you, have you always lived here?"

"No, but I moved to the city when I was around fifteen, so I've been here awhile. I know Gotham inside out, now, even better than the locals."

"I don't doubt it," I chuckle, "Why did you move?"

"My dad enrolled me at Gotham High. I immediately fell in love with the city, despite its..." She thoughtfully glances to her left, "Quirks. And then, I went to university here and just decided to stay." She shrugs. "Where did you go to school?"

The brunette resumes drinking her matcha beverage. Once I have swallowed the latest bite of my sandwich, I force a calm steadiness onto my voice to answer her.

"I went to my local high school and did my whole EMT training in my home state. I'd applied for a position at the Gotham General Hospital months before I even got my diploma. So, I moved out of my former house on graduation day and, within days, I was established here. In lovely Gotham," I snicker at my own irony. "Does your father still live around here?"

Cheryl sighs. "Oh, he never did. My dad and I have a...", she scoffs with a half-giggle, "Difficult relationship. He really just dropped me off with some money and went back to his big cozy house and his fancy business-y life."

She has daddy issues. Who could have guessed..? It is not deeply unsettling or remotely unexpected. My interlocutor speaks again, before I have concocted a follow-up question.

"There's no need to look at me like that, hon. I know it's not especially surprising."

Her laughter is sharp and high-pitched, which I admit does discourage me slightly.

"Your parents' choices don't define who you are. I didn't mean to..."

I wave my fingers incoherently in front of my eyes. This prompts her to laugh again, however it is floral and delighted this time.

"I just watch people's eyes a lot, don't worry."

I smile, skillfully changing the subject, under the pretext of caring about her feelings and thus avoiding inquiries about her father and hers conflicted relationship.

"You mentioned university, right? What did you study?"

"Dance, I got my degree in that."

"That must have been really exciting. Do you work in something related to that?"

"Sort of. I perform as much as I can, but I've got a couple of jobs on the side. Right now, I'm mostly just helping my boyfriend out with one of his small business ventures. Gotta pay the bills and all that..! I'll invite you to my next show, if you want to watch me!"

Cheryl briefly details her current artistic project to me, while we finish our respective dishes and drinks. I am formulating how to ask her if she needs to leave, and reconsidering if that will repulse her, when a strong cascade of movement flickers from the corner of my right eye.

Two men, exhibiting their uniforms with their police badges glinting under the light, stop at our table. They stand to my right, effortlessly towering above our seated figures. I am struggling to hide how tense I am becoming, but my acquaintance's actions and composure reassure me. She swiftly leans back in her chair, props her left arm across its back and stretches her lips into a sagacious smile.

"Well, hello, boys." Her voice dropped from her prior cheerful and unevenly vibrant syllables to a steady seductive pour.

The man closest to her, who is middle-aged with an unshaved face, politely asks, "How do you do, Cheryl?"

"Oh, I'm just doin' marvelous. How about you two?"

She tilts her head endearingly, almost batting her eyelashes at them. His colleague replies, with a squeaky, shrill voice that clashes with his thick brow and rough-edged face.

"We're doing good ourselves. We saw you from over there and thought we might say 'hi'."

"Hm, aren't ya the sweetest thing?"

She chuckles, and I am... Stunned. Speechless. I can scarcely form a coherent thought. And neither can the two uniformed officers, from what I can discern. I am nearly forgetting her criminal ties, although I am certain her charm and strangely tuned manners are directed exclusively at our uninvited guests.

She tells them: "Shouldn't you two be patrolling and putting bad guys away, or something?"

The older man retorts, "Shouldn't you be at the club?"

"I'm havin' lunch with my friend. Nothing illegal here."

Cheryl brushes her long hair behind her shoulders, turning to face me.

"Friend or associate?"

His harsh tone should annoy the gangster's girlfriend, nevertheless she laughs softly, mockingly insisting: "A very dear friend."

The younger one of them both has been staring at me intently, and suddenly wonders, pointing at me with his sausage fingers.

"You're a paramedic, right?"