Abbott, West Virginia, the town with a funny name, was a funny place to live. Needing somewhere to hang for the winter, I settled there and bought this cedar log cabin. The first owner Stubbs was a coal minter dying of black lung in a hospice.

Abe's Bar & Grill became my oasis. Along about the third week, my mountain man cuisine had fallen below even cafeteria standards. One evening I botched making gravy and my stomach went on a hunger strike. Fast food wouldn't cut it, only real sustenance such as a hot, home-cooked meal. Filled with more dread than hope, I got in my Prizm and prowled down the laurel-clad mountain. Mid-way, I braked to avoid nailing a white-tailed buck flouncing into the thickets.

Twice before I'd braved venturing into the nearby coal hamlet of Abbot. Despite a half-dozen hairstyle saloons and video stores, its sole eatery was Abe's. Take it and like it, I decided parking in a curbside slot. Still daylight out, Abbot's early birds had yet to flock and break bread. Perfect for a paranoid — no people. Whistling through my teeth, I ducked inside Abe's, copped a squat, and browsed a xeroxed menu.

My radar flipped on to scan the diner and went nuts. Two booths ahead, this wavy brunette hair showed a few demure ringlets. Caramel brown eyes lifted to the wall clock. I didn't catch the time. A mite this side of next-door wholesome, she looked familiar. The tall, anemic waitress memorized the brunette's order. Slitting my eyes, I used this diversion to assess: yep, the brunette was the same one. The waitress stopped at my booth. My hopes were pinned on Number 3: meatloaf, mashed potatoes, gravy, and coffee hot and black.

I gazed around interested in who else shunned the crowds. The farrier with an eye patch the next booth over took one chomp out of a celery stalk, then blooped it over his shoulder. The brunette's order, a low fat cottage cheese and tuna on rye, arrived first on melmac dishes, but I wolfed mine down, skipping the leather britches beans cooked in bacon rind.

I timed paying my tab at the cash register to fold in behind the brunette. A placard under the wicker basket cornucopia of plastic nuts and fruit said, WE RESERVE THE RIGHT TO SERVE ANYBODY. I, evidently, measured up to their high standards.

"We'll be talking at you soon," the waitress yelled. Nodding, I waved.

The dying sun a red ball split by the horizon, Abbot's street now swarmed in rawer and colder. Tacking right, the brunette leashed me in that same direction. She bore her coat, plaid and ankle-length, with an upright elegance and the heightening effect flattered her. By now the dinner hour, Pontiacs and Buicks were tethered to the parking meters. Towing was enforced but my Prizm, a half-block away, had to fend for itself. Prowling past Martin's Food Market, I drank in a look at her in the coppery brightness spilling from its plate windows.

What floored me was her hair, an ebony sculpture. My stride lengthened. She stuttered a half-step in heels and whisked a come-hither glimpse at me. Or was it hysteria? Was I viewed in that candid moment as a Freddie Krueger letch?

In haste, I spoke to break the ice. It was a throwaway line about if she had a kid sister named Michelle. As I took on a hyacinth scent, her silvery laugh connected. As a flirt tactic, I wagered a gal wouldn't give out her telephone number to a stranger on a dark street. She did and raised me one. A stranger would never call a gal's telephone number given out on a dark street.

"Well, shucks," I said. "You saw right through me."

She laughed that laugh. Her auto, a Z-car Nissan, bore as many gray patches of body putty as my Prizm. We cozied up inside it. Bangles tinkling on her wrist, she slotted in the ignition key, stroked the V6 engine, and coaxed out some much valued heat. Self-introductions went fast. She was Dreema Adkins. I was simply Cartwright.

"I thought I recognized you," she said.

"Sure, I've shopped at Martin's," I said. "We've even spoken on two occasions."

Dreema's efficiency, three blocks away, sat above a music store and an Iranian osteopath's office. We could go there, if I liked the idea. I did. Within minutes, we parked on a stretch of vacant street. Rock star posters taped on the glass storefront discounted Counting Crows and Sheryl Crow CDs for $11.99. On Napster, the same tunes were once free for the downloading.

"Most guys I meet are like roses . . . I avoid the pricks," she said. "You seem different."

"Well, shucks," I said, in kidding way. "You keep seeing right through me."