A man and a woman sit at opposite ends of the noisy, crowded bar. She is looking off into space and he is busy looking at the drink sitting on the bar in front of him. A Black Russian. He never drinks Black Russians!

The casual observer would see the harried business man come in to relax at the end of a busy day. She wears a police uniform, reviewing the hectic day she has had.

He wants to move over to the empty stool next to her, to strike up a conversation, but he can't make himself do it. She, in turn, watches him, trying not to appear that she is.

She could tell he had had a rotten day. Trouble at the office? Combined with trouble at home, no wonder he looked frazzled. She wanted to move over beside him, to help him. But she couldn't.

He stands up and starts walking toward her just as she gets off the stool and moves toward him. Meeting half way, they both begin talking at the same moment.

"Honey, I'm sorry I blew up this morning."

"No, no, it was my fault."

Seeing an empty booth, they drop into it, holding hands like teenagers, knowing they can work it out as they have so many times before.

^