Seven o'clock came and no Dara. 8:00, 9:00, the same. No phone call, either: my cell was with me, and it was the only phone I had. At 9:30, I gave up. I took a picture of the table, and then cleared it. The salads, now limp and disgusting, went into the garbage. The wine had been open too long; down the drain with it, just like the rest of the evening. I packaged the brisket and sides and put them in the refrigerator. I printed my picture on Dara's printer, put it in the middle of the table and blew out the candles.
I was almost finished drying the dishes when I heard the key in the lock. It was almost 10:00. I heard Dara's laugh, joined by a masculine chuckle. Dara's apartment had a little entryway with coat pegs, angled so that if you were standing in it, you couldn't see the rest of th
