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By the time our wine arrives, I know he works in commercial property, is divorced, and has no children.

“You’re very efficient,” he says.

“I like to know what I’m dealing with.”

“And have you decided?”

“Not yet.”

He smiles. “I’ll try harder.”

Then he turns it back on me. “Are you married?”

“Widowed.”

He pauses. “Would it help if I said I’m sorry?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so.”

I like him for knowing that.

For a while, the date is exactly what I wanted it to be.

He tells me about a man who spent twenty minutes negotiating over the price of an office building, then walked away because the elevator buttons looked cheap.

“He said he couldn’t trust a building that cut corners before you reached the lobby.”

“Reasonable.”

His knee touches mine beneath the table. Neither of us moves.

Behind him, a man near the entrance looks in our direction.

It isn’t the first time.

He has a drink. A phone. An entirely plausible reason to be sitting in a bar.

He looks down.

André says something.

“I’m sorry?”

“I asked how long you’re staying.”

“That depends on tomorrow.”

“Then I have a very narrow window in which to impress you.”

Under ordinary circumstances, I would make him regret that line.

Instead, I put my hand on his thigh.

His attention sharpens.

Good. Mine does too.