The museum attendant picked up the phone and dialed the restaurant.
He handed it to me.
I listened for a moment, then explained where we were and asked about dinner.
“Reservations for two. Six o’clock. Okay. See you soon.”
When I hung up, I handed the phone back and reached for my wallet.
“No.”
The attendant looked at the clock.
“You have twenty minutes.”
he let that sink in, then he pointed towards a map of the galleries.
“You can see this.”
His finger moved.
“And this.”
He exhaled.
“You know. You would enjoy this place much more if you didn’t know what you were missing.”
Then he handed us the tickets.
We hurried upstairs.
Room after room passed as quickly as museum etiquette allowed.
Apollo.
Lions.
Roman emperors.
I stopped in front of one statue—lingering long enough to notice the marble drapery: folds soft enough to look like they might wrinkle beneath a hand. Hair dissolved into loose curls. Fingernails emerged from polished fingertips.
Then I looked at the clock.
“Ten minutes.”
“Come on.”
Dani was already moving.
I followed.
The announcement came while we were still walking.
The museum was closing.
We followed the crowd outside and into the rain.
It had been raining on and off all day. Now it came down hard enough that we stopped trying to avoid it.
By the time we reached the restaurant, water dripped from our sleeves onto the floor.
The hostess smiled, took our coats, and led us to a table against a white brick wall.
We sat down.
For a moment, neither of us said anything.
Then the waiter arrived carrying a small plate.
“A little something from the kitchen.”
We ate it.
He came back with another plate.
Then warm bread with thick Danish butter.
Then clams scattered with herbs.
Then fish.
Then chicken.
At some point, I stopped trying to remember what we had ordered.
By the time dessert arrived, we’d lost count of the courses.
Rain still pattered against the windows.
Outside, Copenhagen had gone dark while we stayed where we were.