It was carefully choreographed from the beginning: where to meet, when to meet, how to meet. What to wear. They’d chosen a hotel bar, something out of the Golden Age of Hollywood: dark-paneled, curving bar, well-lit without being glaring or over-bright. Waiters — they called them “servers” now — and bartenders (“mixologists”) were no longer tuxedoed, but well-dressed without being either overly formal or offensively casual. They wouldn’t be mistaken for customers, with their subtle name-badges and not-quite-uniform: slacks and shirts that they were free to accessorize from their own closets. It gave the appearance that they were not all dressed the same.

She arrived at the prescribed time, not a moment before or after. He was seated at the bar, along a side where he could watch both the door and the booths and tables. She sat at a table and glanced around nervously. A server came over to take her order, then took it to the bar. She took out a book and began to read while she waited.

He beckoned the barman and said something; the barman nodded and poured the drink, put it on a tray for the server who took it to the table, bent low to speak in her ear, and gestured towards the bar. She raised the glass to toast “the gentleman over there” and nodded her thanks before sipping. She put the drink down and picked up her book. She read a page, sipped her cocktail, and glanced over at the bar. She caught his eye — or he caught hers: later they might argue over how it happened, and then laugh because it didn’t matter — she caught his eye and gestured for him to join her.

“Thank you for the drink,” she said. “It’s very kind. You should know I don’t usually accept drinks from strange men.”

“I’m not strange,” he quipped, and then put out his hand. “I’m Daniel. And you are….?”

“Amy.”

“Hello, Amy. Now we’re not strangers. Thank you for inviting me to join you.”

“Thank you for coming over. I get so tired of sitting here alone.”

“Are you staying here?”

“No. It’s on my way home from work, and sometimes I stop in and watch the tourists or the conventioneers. Which are you?”

“Neither, I’m afraid. I was supposed to meet someone here but….”

“She didn’t show?”

“She didn’t show.” He sighed, a sigh that was in equal measures exasperation and resignation, with an added touch of indignation.

“That’s rude. Perhaps she’s over there somewhere,” she replied, scanning the lounge area on his behalf.

“Perhaps she is. I don’t actually mind. I’m much better off here, I’m sure.”

She beamed at him and put her book away. They clinked glasses and got on with getting acquainted, ordering a second round and then dinner, steak frites for her and a seared pork chop for him.

“Brandy?” he asked.

“Coffee,” she replied. “I want to keep sharp.”

“For?”

“For whatever happens next.” And she lowered her eyes and smiled shyly.

“Well then,” he said. “We should find out.” As he stood he slid a room key across the table to her. “Ten minutes. I’ll be waiting. Don’t be late.”

“Yes, Daniel.” She watched him walk to the elevators and then checked the time. She would wait nine minutes before following him up. That, she thought, would make her just late enough.