Harry sat in the bar with a scotch.
Ruth watched him.
He looked good. Black jeans, black crew neck shirt and a casual jacket. He leant back against the plush seat swilling the liquid thoughtfully around the crystal glass.
There was a large part of Ruth that could have happily sat there all night. There was something about the way he pursed his lower lip, slightly caressing the glass, waiting to receive the heat of the whiskey.
"Alright?" asked Adam, appearing suddenly.
Ruth closed the window on her screen.
"Fine," she said casually, "just working through the last of the Syrian transcripts."
"Don't work too late," he pulled on his coat and headed for the pods, "See you tomorrow."
"Night, Adam."
The window reopened. Harry nodded at the waiter, a fresh glass now in hand.
As he sat there waiting Ruth was not to know that his thoughts were all of her. He imagined himself in a bar waiting for her to join him, for it to be their date. He imagined her long boots; her hair; her eyes hidden by embarrassment; the blush on her cheek; and always, always the smartness of her reply, that sharp burning intelligence that was beyond him, impressed him, thrilled him.
She loved how he considered the glass, weighed its contents, measured its existence and then savoured every sweet drop of it. He could make a life or death decision in a heartbeat and yet he could deliberate something at length, considering all sides, pondering every outcome.
Perhaps that was the problem - with her he had too much time.
Ruth saw Zofira before he did. She watched her approach and hesitate, she watched her almost turn away before finally, shyly stepping forward and speaking to him. Ruth could not hear but she saw Harry look up, rise to his feet like the gentleman she knew him to be. The woman was stunning, even on a security camera she looked good: pale ivory skin, dark rich long hair, a slim yet voluptuous figure and a charming, infectious smile.
She was quite captivating.
And Harry appeared to be in agreement.
He hailed the waiter and ordered Zofira a drink. She sat opposite him and looked nervous but he was relaxed and at ease.
He had lost himself slightly in her eyes, they were a little like Ruth's, not quite as searching, nor as piercing but beautiful enough.
She had thanked him for his kindness, for the rescue of her bag in her occasionally broken English with a rich and warm voice. He had apologised for the haste of his retreat and asked if he could apologise better over a drink should she care to join him. The waiter had barely been able to take his eyes from her but she had been unaware of him. She was only aware of Harry.
Ruth was aware too, aware of the openness of his body language, of the smile that constantly played over his face. This wasn't the Harry she was used to watching, the man who sat behind his desk, scowling at reports; it was closer to the man he occasionally let her glimpse, the one who's eyes she had sometimes seen spark and ignite…she had thought for her, but now she wondered.
For two hours she sat watching and watchful, a silent surveillance of a situation that demanded none. For one hundred and twenty minutes she watched him slowly move closer; tactile and warm; oozing bonhomie and a quiet charm.
And for the duration of that two hours she concluded that she had never found him so very, very attractive.