He waited in the cold outside her flat for her to get home. Any time now the opening night party would be breaking up.
He didn't have to wait long for a taxi to deliver her to the building. She looked out and saw him, but she didn't smile.
Slowly she crossed the short strip of sidewalk between the parked cars and where he stood, her arms crossed over her chest. Her hair was still in the braided bun from the performance.
"Hi," she said, her voice tired. "I got your flowers."
"Good," he nodded, "I'm sorry I couldn't make it—business called me to New Yor—"
"Julian," she interrupted him, "What is this? I don't want to give you the wrong impression."
"What is what? A friend can't send flowers?"
She looked at him cautiously, gauging him somehow. He had to force himself to act casual. Act natural.
Finally she said, "Would you come up for a coffee? I can't sleep until really late after we open a new show."
"Sure, don't let me keep you up too long."
She smiled shyly at him as she pushed past to go inside the hallway, "I won't."