allthatgoes | "The soul is in an Amity cheesecake."

So for a change of venue, away from Europe or Michigan or the Balkans, let's zoom in on a little place in Manhattan called the New Amity. The New Amity was a small restaurant with six booths, had a raised oil painting of the island shore across the left wall, and was run by a man named Steve.

The restaurant had its regulars: a single homosexual man who lived upstairs that everyone absolutely loved, a young couple and their three dogs, the librarian and the doctor with their little daughter all from down the street, a playwright and his brother, a construction worker with a heart of gold and a very, very attractive assistant district attorney.

Sometimes the lonely man from upstairs had the occasional companion. The young couple always had their dogs. Librarian and doctor and their daughter were always there at least in two if not all three. At times the playwright or the brother or both brought friends; and once even an entire cast party (which soon added the doctor, the librarian and the daughter as well as the man from upstairs and one of the dogs). From time to time they saw the construction worker's wife. But everyone knew that the ADA, despite his charm, would always eat alone.

Only Steve, the doctor and the playwright's kid brother, in fact, even knew his name.

One day in November of 1995, though, that changed. The charming ADA came in with someone just as striking in appearance as he was. She turned out to be just as clever as he was, too, and just as much of a lawyer.

(She also turned out to be married, but none of them learned that for a couple of weeks at least.)

He brought her in the once and they talked shop. They talked shop about events involving deaths in the city, so of course the playwright was listening, for inspiration, and they talked about near-deaths in the city, so for part of the time the doctor had half an ear on them, just to be sure things were still okay.

So maybe the doctor and the playwright noticed more quickly than anyone else – except, of course, for Steve, who knew his regulars far better than any of them knew each other and perhaps better than some of them knew themselves – how much more ADA Pelias Hargreaves seemed to shine when he was around this woman.

After he'd brought here there three times in two weeks, the others started to get to know her, too, and they developed the same opinion as the two lawyers' co-workers, that Pelias Hargreaves and Bianca Vaughn-Blair would be an unstoppable force if the forces they were going against weren't almost always each other.

They were, in fact, really almost always competing, and on one particular December, it was almost business as usual. The key word here, though, is 'almost.'

Pel and Bianca walked in arm in arm together, same as always, and greeted everyone else as always – "Darren, Alan, Steve. Allison, Dora." – and threw a couple of treats to the gaggle of dogs.

"I can win this," Bianca was saying when Steve went to take their orders, not sure why, as he never really was, why he bothered taking orders from regulars, as it was the nature of regulars to get the same thing every time they came in, over and over, another thing that was regular about them – and Pelias was shooting her a thoughtful and disapproving look.

"Sorry for interrupting," Steve said.

"It's no problem," Bianca replied cooly, shooting him that smile that made men weak at the knees – just about the same way Pelias' did to women (and the man from upstairs). Steve would remember that smile later, and wonder just when it was that she stopped using it, and when it was that she just stopped smiling at all.

"I believe it is a problem – no, not you, Steve, it's okay – your confidence, Bianca. You're too sure you're so good – you aren't God's gift to the practice of law, Bianca."

"I am God's gift to chancery and I am God's gift to mankind, as well."

"Well," Pelias laughed, "the second one I don't doubt."

And Steve's attention was distracted again as the librarian, murmuring "let them go, Butterfly," was detatching her daughter from one of the dogs, who seemed just as disappointed as the little girl, and started whining.

In retrospect, it was a good thing that the child left before things got as heated as they would.

By the time Steve brought Bianca her chocolate mousse and Pelias his cheesecake and everyone coffee, like he always did, the two of them were snarling at each other – really intense, if muffled, insults and otherwise inflammatory statements.

And by the time they were done with dessert, everyone but the remaining regulars had left, quite possibly because Pelias and Bianca were all-out screaming at each other.

She rose to go, turning sharply on an Armani-clad heel, stalking off, and Pelias jumped up, grabbing her arm and twisting it to pull her back, flattening her against the doorway.

Shocked, Steve went for the phone, in case he had to dial 911.

And that was when Pelias, visibly enraged, pushed the head of the equally angry Bianca up and back and kissed her, hard.

It was the most passionate, blatantly sexual clingy, grabby three and a half minute kiss that the doorway of the New Amity had ever seen.

(It was the most blatantly sexual kiss Steve had ever seen, for that matter.)

And by the time Pelias Hargreaves finally let her breathe, and then lifted her into his arms and carried her out to a taxi, everyone had forgotten again that she was married, most especially her.

It was a life-altering moment for Pelias and for Bianca, both in different and very meaningful ways, and a playwright and his brother, a restaurant owner named Steve and a young couple and their three dogs could all say that they had seen it all.

(Perhaps, if they knew what happened later, they wouldn't have wanted to.

But, oblivious, they were all kind of proud of themselves.)