After a moment of small talk with the owner, she began the long walk toward my table. I stood, moving to the other side of the booth to pull back the heavy chair for her. She remained silent as she sat, her movements fluid and silent. I returned to my spot, resting my elbow on the white linen tablecloth. So far, so good. I'd expected it to be a train wreck of awkwardness, but we were both playing the part of "civilized" perfectly.
A waitress appeared at the table like a ghost, her voice a hushed whisper. "Good evening. May I take your order, or perhaps start you with a bottle from our cellar?"
Carrie didn't even look at the menu. "The Beluga caviar to start, followed by the wagyu tartare. And a bottle of the '45 Krug."
The waitress scribbled furiously, then turned to me. I glanced at the prices, numbers that looked like phone extensions, and cleared my throat. I mean, I could afford it, sure, but… naah. Fuck that noise.
"I'll just... have a sparkling water. For now."
