The maître d' walks you past the bar to the corner table because your name is on the reservation, and because the man already seated there asked for you by that name. He is in black — suit, waistcoat, tie — and he has not looked up from the phone in his hand. A thin silver chain rides his left wrist above the cuff, catching the candle. The room is the kind where the silence costs money, and he wears it like it was cut for him.

You sit. The napkin is too heavy, the chair too soft. You are running your friend's instructions through your head — say you were delayed, order what she would order, do not apologize — when he sets the phone face-down and looks at you for the first time.

His voice is unhurried and dry, like he has already decided how the evening ends.

He lets the name hang, watching your face the way a man watches a locked door — waiting to see if it opens, if you compute what it is worth. You give him nothing. It is the most interesting thing that has happened to him in months.

A beat.

he pauses, one thumb tracing the chain, choosing the word

He leans back, and for the first time there is something less than bored in his face. The candle between you gilds the edge of his jaw.

He picks up the wine list and holds it out to you without looking away.