The restaurant was part of that great singles swamp at Fillmore and Filbert they called the Bermuda Triangle, but the hamburger on baguette with grilled onions was worth it. Lola ordered a bottle of Mirassou champagne to wash it down. “Why not?” she said. “We deserve it. To Meeting Cute.” She toasted Annie with her tulip-shaped glass. “So,” Lola continued, “tell me how it’s going. Met anybody interesting? How about that writer you were so enthusiastic about?” Annie groaned. “Lloyd Andrews. I was slapping on wrinkle cream for a week before I met him. Needn’t have bothered.” “Wasn’t he interested in your long, white body?” “He’s not interested in much of anything that doesn’t relate directly to the life and times of Lloyd Andrews.” “From what you said about his letter, he certainly seemed interested. How did that line go?” “I wanted to tell you about this, so I brought it along.” Annie held up the letter she’d found in her bag. “‘I read your ad and wanted you, wishing I could transport you here immediately, naked and hot and curious.
