Seated in a booth opposite a lovely red headed woman, his back to the wall and a club sandwich staring him in the face, Don Hockney had the uncomfortable feeling he was being scrutinized from across the room.
With undeniable certainty, Hockney knew he was under the steady, fixed gaze of someone other than the woman at his table. He had no idea how he knew, but with the passing minutes between ordering his meal and its arrival, he had become aware of the intense interest someone was paying him. What had he done to attract this much attention, he wondered.
The hubbub of the bustling lunch time crowd jamming the restaurant rose a notch and promised to drown out all conversation, yet he made the attempt. “Ever have the feeling you’re being watched?” he asked and took a bite.
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Hockney marveled at how the unconscious works. He could not determine precisely what had given away his observer. Perhaps he had caught covert glances out of the corner of his eye one too many times and they finally registered, surfacing as a prickling along his neck, a tension that could no longer be ignored, converting themselves into the conviction that he was the focus of extreme attention.
Then again, he thought as he swallowed and licked his lips, he could be quite wrong. It may just be his imagination, and no one was really focusing attention on his noontime behavior. He took another bite.
“No. Not really. I’m not particularly paranoid,” the redheaded woman said. When her companion expanded his question no further, she said, “I cannot believe the deadline
