She glided past where he sat at the small round table. He felt her presence before looking up. He had never seen so effortlessly elegant a woman in this city where he sat now, in a cafe in one of the world’s great music centers. Not seen anyone like her in New York, not even in Paris. Never in Tokyo, Rio, Milan, Mumbai, Istanbul. She was not designer-elegant. She was not model-elegant. She was not royalty-elegant. She was just thoroughly in command of herself.

Everything about her was liquid: the sleek velvet coat, the plush clouche tilted jauntily across her blunt-cut hair, the alternate notes of lemon and smoky amber. She moved as if through mist, leading with her hips, relaxed but not louche. She found a chair at a table like his, a few seats in front and to the right of him. He watched as black velvet unfurled from her back and arms. He leaned forward, as if to catch the velvet cape, as if to fold it and place it where she had, over a companion chair. Her pale silk dress, without a waist yet shapely, shimmered as she smoothed it so she could sit. The cloche slid into her hands. She peeled the gloves from her elbows over her fingers, dreamily placing them in the bowl of the cloche. Every move she made whispered Mittleeuropa; every gesture called to him from the last century. His desire to know her rose inside, glowing at its edges with a quiet flame. He imagined he knew everything about her. She was a musician. A pianist, obviously, with those strong, graceful fingers and wrists. She was educated. She was measured, observant, yet passionate. She thought before she acted. They sat in her living room, twenty blocks north of here, sipping cognac on opposite sofas. Her arm floated to her side; her wrist rested on the cushion. He followed her signal, moved to sit next to her, placed her drink on the glass table. He took her into his arms. They kissed, slow and long. Then hungrily. They hurried toward her bedroom but could not wait. She grabbed his lapels. He pinned her against the hallway wainscotting.

A waiter placing a tray in front of her woke him from his reverie. Her smile, controlled yet gracious, the dip of her chin, conveyed Thank you. She lifted the coffee pot lid. She dipped her fingers into the hot liquid. She licked each one when she took them out. He watched her pour coffee into a cup, brown streaks leaking over the cup’s edges, the pot dribbling stains as she set it down. He watched her splash milk into the coffee cup, streaking the pitcher. She twirled a spoon in the coffee, then sucked the liquid from it. The spot between his eyebrows throbbed as he reconciled her actions with what he had expected. She reached for sugar packets and tore off the tops; they fluttered to the floor. She circled the spoon in the sweetened coffee and ran her tongue over the inside and the back of the utensil. She brought the cup to her lips and guzzled. Then, the pièce de résistance, she grabbed the croissant with two hands as if gripping a rolling pin and bit into the tender bread, shaking her head back and forth as she gnawed at it. Crumbs flew onto the tray, amassed on the table, pooled in her lap. Chewing with her mouth open, she pressed the fingertips of her right hand to her dress and brought crumbs to her tongue, licking her fingers, opened-mouthed, then continued to lift more crumbs and lick, more and lick. His mouth slung open. Was she going to lean down and tongue the table?

He closed his eyes. Another fantasy up in smoke. The quiet flame of desire sputtered. Yet, a new flame roared into its place. He had to see how this woman tackled a T-bone steak. He pushed back his chair and headed to her table. In his mind, he was determined to introduce himself.