We arrive at the restaurant separately, but almost simultaneously: I’m just ordering my drink when I see you alight from the cab, and so I give the barman your order too. You kiss me, briefly but passionately, all the while sweeping to the bar, putting down your briefcase, and scooping the drink from my hand: you make it seem like one fluid motion. There is a brightness in your eye that I can’t quite figure out just yet; perhaps it’s similar to the gleam in mine that you are coming to know too well.

A little space opens up at the bar, and you hop onto the stool — giving me the best view. Your skirt is revealing without being too revealing. You laugh and hook your heel on the barstool, giving me a little show of knees, calves, thighs. I stand almost on top of you, and drop my free hand down to touch your knee. I quickly slide it up your leg, getting a quick sense of the terrain: how far along are we, and how far still to travel.

Our table is ready and we sit together on the banquette. Occasionally one hand or another — mine, or yours — travels a bit farther than polite company would think is proper, especially in a public place. The meal is superb, as is the wine; and were it not for the dessert I’ve planned for later on, we might stay well past the cheese course. As it is, what I see in your eyes reflects my own desire, and it has been too long frustrated: the delicious delay will, in time, prove a fatal distraction. I touch my napkin to my lips and replace it in my lap; and while my one hand travels from my lap to yours, lifting your skirt and tasting your thighs with my fingertips, the other hand signals, almost invisibly, for the check. It is time to return to the hotel.