"Oh, just one more thing, waiter," Hutchinson called after him.

Starsky stopped dead in his tracks, but didn't turn around. His right hand began to curl into a fist and his shoulders to hunch.

"Make sure the wine is white."

The hand became full fist. The shoulders slumped. Cool it. You need the dough, and you can't make a scene. He walked stiffly to and through the swinging kitchen doors.

Hutchinson tried to laugh at what he just done to put Starsky in his place beneath him. When the laugh wouldn't come, he spent the next several minutes trying to figure out why. As he ate, he observed the waiter/photographer interact with his customers and the two waitresses. He unexpectedly found himself feeling pangs of jealousy at Starsky's easy and friendly way with everyone. Except him.

It was during dessert of hazelnut biscotti with a double espresso when Hutchinson finally got around to cursing the distance and wariness that money seemed to place between him and everyone in his life. And the same money that now made his divorce settlement that much more painful and contentious.

He pulled his wallet from the inner breast pocket of his jacket. His long, strong fingers grasped a single, but he stopped before he could slide it out. Shit. I treat people I don't even know better than the people around me. He choked back the lump that appeared out of nowhere in his throat. He found a five and tossed that on the table. But the generous tip didn't ease his shame at his treatment of Starsky.