Kim stood on her polished concrete floor and stared out from the glass walls of her penthouse loft. She felt energy surging up from the streets twelve stories below. A single woman living in Downtown Los Angeles, she met plenty of men in restaurants and bars.

Back in the eighties when Pat Benatar sang "Looking for a Stranger," Kim hadn't understood. Twenty-five years later, she too chose anonymous men. Sex was better that way, furious and sweet, no steel-bladed resentments unsheathed. With scripted endings, she never lingered. But now, age was her challenge as she eyed younger men.

She dangled herself, tantalized with her years of experience. Not like before, she worried, fearing time would run out. Translucent skin would end her journey; men would look through her. She prayed not to care when her blonde hair turned to ash.

On a lazy evening, she'd click herself into cyberspace: Woman Looking for Men, Younger Preferred, Friendship and Play. Within hours, her mailbox filled up.

I'm Bob. Let's get together.

This is Ed. You'll like me.

Dinner and ... this Saturday. Lou.

Bob's photo featured a man unlike the Benatar heartbreaker, dream maker, love-taker. He'd be a safer bet for a woman trying to protect herself. Not quite as youthful, wheat brown hair and a stiff collared shirt. He might suffice for an evening or two.

Usually she chose the pretty ones, flowing hair and turquoise jewelry, rhinestone-studded denims and silky shirts. They walked with a wiggle, spontaneous and playful. They cherished themselves and clung to eternal freedom. They'll meet at a restaurant for their first date, often the only one. She'll be smiley and cheeky in angora sweaters and bright colored pants and leave no breadcrumbs on her path.

Today, she'd try Bob, a throwback from her past. Older than her usual, and somewhat traditional. She'd always wondered how her life would have turned out if she'd stayed with her husband.

She clicked on the keys. Hey Bob! Let's talk. Call me at 892-3546.

She smelled honeysuckle vines as she walked from her car to the restaurant. The aroma of oregano and marina assailed her before she saw him. He stepped up to greet her, his eyes accustomed to the darkness. They chose a booth by a window and pretended to read the menu. She wore black and red; he wore khaki and white. His cologne smelled like musk and his hair slicked back, not windblown like his photo.

"So, how long have you lived in LA?" She asked him.

"Only a year."

"Like it?"

"Not really. Too many people. Hard to find friends."

"Where're you from?"

"Little town outside of Boston. You've probably never heard of it. My family still lives there."

"Why did you leave?"

"Job opportunities."

Like many others, Bob jabbered on about work and his divorce. His brow tightened and he sweated. Like that mattered to her. His life seemed so dull compared to hers. Living in LA had freed her to reinvent herself. He expected her to understand his loneliness and maybe she did. Once it had been hard for her, but she'd transitioned. He didn't ask her many questions.

She could tease out his wishes or play with him, keep him off balance. Like a chameleon, her personality changed on every shoulder where her head rested. Her spider legs straddled so many lifestyles, not just the one where he lived.

She flirted with the waiter and ordered shrimp pasta. Bob tolerated it and ordered a beef sandwich and French fries. Somewhere down deep, she knew her wild spirit excited him. He'll try to dominate her later. The battle lines were being drawn long before the first bite. As his knee brushed against hers, she felt his yearning. A voice inside whispered for her to wait. Too often she'd been made foolish by her own passion.

She drank her whiskey sours greedily. The room swirled, fuzzy at the edges. The bottles of liquor at the bar glistened as the barmaid poured her next drink. When Bob's fingers reached across the table, she pinched him. He'll have to wait for the band to play, the one in her head.

Once she'd trapped herself behind a white picket fence and drowned in the mirage of an omnipotent man. The sparkle had disappeared from her eyes as she toiled over the stove and under the blankets. Love became nasty and bitter. The city she loved morphed into an alien planet until she developed a taste for the kindness of strangers.

"How's your dinner?" He asked, as he ran his pinkie over hers.

She thought about squeezing his wrist but abandoned the idea. He might tire of pleasantries and be direct. Cordial, giving directions, private with the touchy-feely stuff, he'd never understood the reason for his divorce, only the pain. Hanging off the threshold of another reality, he wanted only to escape. He might see her as his ticket, but would she want to travel with him?

"Have you ever thought of getting married again? He asked.

With another kind of man, she'd slide in fast with the intimacy. But, if she twined her fingers between his; he'd get excited. He'd attach himself tight waiting to be airlifted from his burning building.

She'd felt the burden at the second he had the thought. Her struggle to free herself began before they'd finished their dinner. Her body recoiled as his roots burrowed. With him, sex had to be impersonal and quick.

With the last bites wiped from their plates and their buzz on, they sauntered onto the street. Pairs of people rushed around, more businesslike than romantic. Being with him didn't seem as dangerous. They settled on a movie. She had thought about fleeing but hadn't decided fast enough. The Vista Theatre on Sunset Boulevard had comfortable, spacious seats.

"Sometimes, I smoke," she told him.

His lips twitched. He'd chosen the movie: Thank You for Smoking.

Friendship was the keyword, she told herself, but knew he'd want the sex. She'd stall, savoring his eagerness and making her decision. Her skin rubbed against his on the armrest between them. His fingers hardened into hers. The plot thickened as their eyes watched the screen. Now she wanted him; then she didn't. It wasn't usually this difficult to determine. She remembered the Benatar warning: love is contagious, one kiss dangerous.

As the toiled bowl flushed, she thought of running off. She'd find other men who threatened her less. But, it had been too late for her to change course.

"Great flick. Love the irony." He grabbed her hand and held it tight as she slid back into her seat. "And, I'm enjoying your company."

So simple and direct, his words wound into her heart. It would have to be her place; she needed the security. The drive to her loft in the Santee Village passed in a blur. Parking would be difficult for him; she had only one space. Changing her mind would be impossible; he had her address.

He took off his clothes when she asked. She wanted him to hurry. His sweater and pants dropped to the floor. She yanked off her skirt and black sandals, as his jockey shorts slipped down his legs. And then, they were in the bed. His hot breath warmed her neck; his fingers explored. She gave in to the experience. But inside, her emotions collided. She fought with herself, fearing the avalanche, the terror, and the woman on the cliff screaming in fear of falling. The newness, the anticipation, nothing matched the pain when she had given her power to others.

Once the act was over, she knew better than to let him stay. She'd need to move on quickly before her feelings trapped her like quicksand. Too many parts of herself had been lost to men who professed to love her. But, when he got out of the bed, she heard herself saying, "Where're you going?"

"Leaving."

"Why?"

He buttoned his shirt. "I'd rather not say."

"Didn't you enjoy yourself?"

"I did."

"Then, why?" She nodded her head and sat up to listen. His rejection hadn't been part of her plan.

"You're an LA person. I need a woman to follow me."

After the door closed behind him, she sat naked in the darkness and watched the city lights twinkle.