I arrived twelve minutes late, which had become ordinary since I made partner. Not because I had grown careless, but because the last hour before any evening commitment was always the most volatile part of my day: a client calling in a panic, a deal threatening to collapse, someone somewhere in a glass office convincing themselves that catastrophe could wait until morning if they just didn’t look directly at it. I was still in my coat, still holding my phone, my mind trailing the end of a call about a supplier who had just discovered their largest customer was three months from insolvency and had not yet told anyone who mattered.
I remember thinking, as I pushed through the restaurant door into the warm interior, that I should have texted Mauricio I was running late. I always forgot to do that. He had mentioned it more than once, the way he mentioned things that bothered him, without quite saying they bothered him, wrapping the complaint in something that sounded like observation.
You always lose track of time. He said it as a fact, not a criticism, which made it harder to address. The restaurant in Polanco was exactly his style.
Dim lighting calibrated to make everyone look their best, the kind of soft amber glow that costs money to achieve and costs more to maintain. Tables set with the precision that signals wealth without announcing it. Heavy glassware that rang when you tapped it.
Waiters trained to be invisible until needed, and entirely silent when they weren’t. Outside, November had settled in, cold and definitive, the kind of cold that feels like a conclusion. Inside, the room smelled of grilled meat and expensive wine and the particular comfort that comes from knowing everything around you cost more than most people spend in a month.
I had been to this restaurant before. Twice with Mauricio for occasions he deemed significant enough to require a reservation. It was not my preference.
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