He looked sad. That was the word that struck me instantly. He wore his solitude like a heavy coat he couldn’t take off.

“Good evening, sir,” I said, pitching my voice to that perfect frequency of polite deference. “My name is Lucia. I’ll be taking care of you tonight. Can I start you with something to drink?”

He looked up. His eyes were a piercing, intelligent blue, but they looked tired. “Red wine. A Cabernet. Whatever you recommend. The bottle is fine.”

“The Tignanello is excellent tonight.”

“That will do.”

I went through the motions. I brought the wine, decanted it, poured a glass. He barely noticed. He just stared out the window at the Manhattan skyline, a city he essentially owned a piece of, yet he looked completely detached from it.