Ryan got there at seven.
He stood outside and looked at the entrance and made the immediate and logical decision not to go in. The reservation was made because of Zara's name. Showing up alone and trying to explain her absence would produce a conversation he didn't need before the evening had started.
He stood to the side of the entrance with his hands in his coat pockets and watched the street.
It was a good evening for it — the city doing its Sunday night version, quieter than Saturday but still alive, temperature that wasn't cold enough to be unpleasant but enough to justify the coat. A couple went past him into the restaurant. A cab stopped and discharged a family of four.
A man walked by talking on his phone in a language Ryan didn't know but with the universal energy of someone losing an argument.
A black car rolled slowly up to the kerb.
It stopped.
The door opened.
Zara stepped out and Ryan forgot what he'd been looking at.
