At half-past seven, he rang the bell for her flat and she buzzed him up.
"Come in," she called when he knocked on the door, "It's open."
Hesitantly, he opened the door and glanced around the living room. She was nowhere to be seen.
"Come in already," she called from the bedroom, "I'm almost ready."
He stood in the tiny kitchen area and glanced at the pictures on the refrigerator: Sydney with a tall, handsome type with curly brown hair; a stern looking picture of someone who had the exact same ears, perhaps her father; a young man with a shock of blonde hair and wire-rimmed glasses, wearing a t-shirt that said "BEER BIKE 1997" on it.
He heard the click of her heels on the floor and looked up.
"You ready?" she was clipping on her right earring.
"If you are," he nodded, looking at her outfit. She was wearing a long, burgundy colored dress that just brushed the tops of her calves when she moved, and a pair of heels that had satin ribbons that laced up her ankles like ballet shoes. Her hair was in a chignon, though some strands were already working their way loose at her temple.
"Do I look OK?" she asked, and he wasn't sure if she would change anything if he said it wasn't.
"You look wonderful."
"So, what happened to your cheek?" she asked abruptly. "Did you run into something?"
"Oh," he lied, "It's nothing. I'm a terrible klutz, caught my cheekbone on the countertop rummaging in my cabinet for something."
"Right," she said, looking away. He could tell she didn't believe it.