The phenomenon known as the chance encounter is a curious thing, rarer in small towns than big cities, for by their nature, small towns foster encounters, where big cities keep their denizens trapped like sardines in splendid (though crowded) isolation. When the outcome is pleasant, we attribute it to fate. When the outcome is decidedly less so, luck of the bad variety takes the blame. On a calm November's evening, when a small town woman late of the big city and a big city girl late of the selfsame small town each headed out in search of one thing, only to wind up with something else entirely, it was fate that got the credit for what in reality was simply an accident of timing.

Joyce Summers, divorced mother of one, and the small town woman in question, found herself at half-past eight that night pulling an elaborate silver chain over her neck, checking twice in the mirror to make certain that the reproduction Incan pendant it held hit at a flattering point between breast and belly. When she was certain it did, she smiled at her reflection, grabbed her clutch purse off the hotel nightstand, and headed out for a well-deserved evening on the town, courtesy of her sister.

"JoJo, you'll never meet anyone in Sunnydale," Pauline had said. "Buffy's in college now, you don't have to be the mom anymore. Take a break, take some time off, go live a little and tell her you're spending Thanksgiving with me."

"Paul, would you stop calling me JoJo? Even Dad stopped calling me JoJo by the time Hank and I got married. Besides, with Buffy's tuition, I don't think I can afford it." The next day, Joyce had received a fax at the gallery, detailing her hotel reservations, dinner reservations, and giving her strict instructions to have some fun for once, and signed: Consider it an early Christmas present -- P.

While Joyce primped and prepped in her downtown hotel room, Cordelia Chase, Girl Friday, aspiring actress, and Sunnydale High School graduate, class of 1999, was choosing earrings in her Silverlake apartment. Thanks to her boss's ill-advised vision-sponsored journey back to the 'Dale and the sudden corresponding drop in daytime activities that involved staring at phones that almost never rang, and evening activities that involved slime, blood, and demons, she'd been given the unexpected luxury of concentrating on her future career instead of her current one. Two auditions (both duds), one disaster of a callback (for a public service announcement), and one almost phone call to Doyle (the ill-dressed getter of the visions) later, and she was more than ready to put on her few remaining designer duds and paint the town red.

And so it was that at quarter to nine, Joyce stepped in a cab, gave the driver the address of a club her sister had recommended, and checked her lipstick one last time (no, not too garish, but not too mom-like, either), while Cordelia slipped on her Pradas, broke into her rainy day fund (which she slipped into her purse with the fake ID Doyle had picked up for her a month earlier), and called a cab of her own, destination: closest (and therefore cheapest in terms of cab fare) almost happening club to her apartment.

If Joyce felt a little too old for the place (and she did), then Cordelia felt right at home. She spotted at least two assistants to assistants to producers in the first ten minutes. One of them even bought her a drink (well, so scratch him off the contacts list). In better spirits than she'd been all day, she headed up to the bar to get something that actually tasted better than lighter fluid.

"Apple martini," she said to the bartender, smiling wide and wondering why she hadn't gotten the toothpaste commercial she'd auditioned for when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.

"I'll have what she's having."

Cordelia turned at the familiar voice beside her. "Oh my god! Mrs. Summers! What are you doing here?" For sure enough, it was Buffy's mom, dressed in something totally un-Buffy's momlike, smiling weakly and looking slightly out of place.

"Cordelia!" Joyce looked around nervously, hoping she wouldn't see any other familiar faces. Ducking her head, she whispered, "You won't tell Buffy you saw me here, will you?" then smiled at the bartender as he handed them their drinks.

Stifling a laugh at the notion of telling Buffy about anything a half-second later than she probably should have, Cordelia widened her grin and took a sip of her drink. "What, are you kidding? Please. Hell would freeze over before that would happen." A beat later, her eyes widened and she leaned towards Joyce, keeping her voice low. "You won't tell them I'm, you know?"

"Young enough to be my daughter? No."

"Oh, good. Well, that's settled. So, what brings you to L.A.?"

"The lack of men, age 35-50, in the Sunnydale area who aren't married, gay, demons, or robots. Buffy thinks I'm spending Thanksgiving with my sister."

"Believe it or not? L.A.'s not much better. Case in point, him." Cordelia gestured at a well-dressed man in the corner. "Married, probably gay, and I'd say there's at least an 80% chance he's at least a little demon."

"What about him?" Joyce used her glass to indicate someone just down the bar from them, and got a smile from the subject that made her want to find the closest shower and scrub for days.

"Oh, he's just sleazy and on the make."

"Men," Joyce sighed.

"Can't live with them, but somebody's got to pay for dinner," Cordelia agreed.

"Well," said Joyce, her smile a little sheepish, "my sister's already made reservations for two for me for tomorrow night. Are you free? We could have a girl's night out."

"Am I ever! Do you have plans for lunch? I know a great place just down the street from me..."

They continued talking late into the night, and well into the beginnings of morning. If only one of them called for a cab at closing time, leading to a girl's night in, neither of them ever said a thing (though that's not to say it never happened).