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She noticed him only when he spoke, so wrapped up in her own thoughts and feelings had she been. She was about to say no, but then, something inside her let her know - she wanted to talk to someone. Strange, but there it was. And apparently this fellow had been selected by Fate. "Sure, sit."
Even when she was merely being polite, something in Claire's voice commanded obedience. He sat. "Thank you. I'm Arthur Wake, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance." It would be awkward if they began to converse without exchanging names, so he offered his freely.
"Claire Donnell." She picked up her menu, positioning it to break the space between them. "The lemon sole is good." She eyed him over the top of the menu. Rich guy, obviously, from the clothes. Polite, which was always a plus. She looked deeper. Oh yes, she had this guy's number. If it were the old days... but it wasn't. Still, she had let him sit with her, she might as well talk to him.
"That sounds delicious. And do you like caesar salad?" He saw her nod in response, so he summoned the waiter over with a modulated gesture. "We'll have the lemon sole, with the caesar salads." Arthur folded his menu neatly in front of him, setting it at the edge of the table.
The waiter scribbled on his pad. "And to drink?"
Claire told the waiter, "Dry martini." She waited until Arthur was about to open his mouth to give his drink order. "One for him, too." She grinned watching him try to catch himself - grinned wider when he succeeded. The waiter took their menus and left. Without the menu to hold between her and the stranger on the other side of the table, Claire felt the frustrated feeling returning. "I don't know why I let you sit here," she said, a direct cut.
Arthur parried carefully. "It could be that you wanted company. I know I did, which is why I approached you. I spend too much time alone, my work requires long hours." He thought to give her a neutral topic to ask about if she wished.
She obliged him. "What do you do?"
"Research psychologist." He saw her look at the cut of his clothes - not exactly affordable on a professor's salary - and smiled, having an answer ready for this one. "Investments. I guessed right, when to get out of high tech stocks."
"So, you torture rats for a profession?" She saw the suppressed retort under the mildly amused surface expression. Perhaps he'd ask her what she did. It was not so different, especially the way she'd purposely chosen to phrase it. But he did not ask. Too polite, since it was not to be assumed a woman had a career, nor offer her the slight of being surprised she did not. "Well, I have a question for you then. A research psychology question." She smiled with bitter humor. "Do love potions exist? Experimentally, I mean. Could you do something chemically to a rat to make it love you?"
Arthur watched her with a feeling of fascinated unease. The answer, as he knew, was yes - the simplest thing he knew of, the natural ability of supernatural blood, to create the bonds that mimicked love. He sensed she knew this as well. So, then. Was she a ghoul like him? Was she bonded by blood to some vampire? Kismet, to meet so. Dark Fate. "Just think how much I could sell it for, if I invented a love potion," he said. "Unless it had some kind of side effect, of course." He watched her, picking out the slight rhythmic tremor in her neck as the blood pumped through the artery.
The waiter set plates of salad before each of the two ghouls. They broke the silence that had settled between them with quiet, comforting sounds of chewing and mmm's of appreciation for the food. By the time the lemon sole was nothing but lingering flavor on the tongue and the animal satisfaction of a full belly, they had grown comfortable with one another's presence across the table. Now conversation could resume, and did.
"A wonderful meal," Arthur said, his gaze taking in the few scraps left of his fish, the empty martini glass. "I may be too full for dessert, but would you care for one? Or some coffee?"
Claire nodded. "Coffee would be perfect. You know, I'd forgotten how this felt, to share a comfortable meal at a restaurant with a man. D-- I mean, the guy I'm with now, doesn't ..." She stopped, not sure how to go on, and was surprised to see a sense of easy comprehension in Arthur's eyes. It startled her into silence.
"Doesn't eat lemon sole? I know the feeling. The woman I live with is the same way. Great big gourmet kitchen, but I end up cooking just for myself if I even bother to use it." Arthur, more adept with the little evasions and cues that made up the ghoul's part of the Masquerade, filled in for her. He felt rewarded by the look of astonished, relieved recognition she gave him. "This table is a bit out in the open, isn't it? I know a cozy coffeehouse, where we can take a corner booth, no waiters, great coffee, and you can tell me whatever's on your mind without so many worries..." Arthur felt a buzz from the mild risk he'd just taken by his suggestion.
Claire smiled a little. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were coming on to me." She wasn't offended, only jabbing mildly to keep the frustration at bay. "Fine, let's go. I'll drive my own car, just show me which one's yours on the way out of here."
Arthur left enough cash on the table to cover both dinners and a generous tip. Though his instinct was to offer Claire his arm as they walked out, he refrained. In the parking lot he showed Claire his silver car, and she seemed suitably impressed by the fancy, fantastically expensive vehicle.
"I won't have any trouble keeping that in sight," she told him, leaving him to start it up as she made her way to her own car and followed. The coffeehouse was not too far away; they reached it in a few minutes, parking the two cars side by side in a nearly empty lot.
They ordered dessert coffee at the counter. Arthur made careful note of Claire's order, so that he'd be able to fetch her a refill later. He carried their cups to the small, high-backed booth he'd been envisioning since he had given her subtly to understand that he could be trusted with her secrets. Setting the cups down on the table, he was about to slide in on his side of the booth, when he saw Claire flinch.
"I can't do this." Her gut churned, threatening heartburn. She looked at Arthur, felt a moment's sorrow for what she was turning down, and walked out, striding toward her car. She felt as though she had backed away from the verge of a cliff of betrayal. Hearing footsteps behind her, she did not slow, pushing the door of the coffeehouse open in front of her with an upraised hand at the end of a stiffened arm.
He followed, deserting coffees and booth without a backward look. "Claire... wait. What's wrong?"
She looked at Arthur, regrets buried under the suffocating need of the only love potion that existed in her world, the anger flaring from its embers. "I just can't." She thought of the one she loved, and her vision blanked red for a moment - it all had to be about him now, one way or another. She saw nothing, but she felt the card slip into her hand, and then her pocket, meaninglessly. Then she fixed herself in the driver's seat, belt fastened, and drove away.
Arthur watched her drive off. The puzzle of Siegfried, in whose feline mind love and pain were conjoined inextricably, occurred to him once more. He had the tantalizing glimpse of an answer, at once tragic and comic: the subjective definition of love.