"Are you sure you can't see anything?" she asks me.

The blindfold is tight across my eyes. Not even a sliver of light shows around the edges. I turn my head this way and that, but all I can see is a black deeper than the velvet that has been tied across my face. "I'm sure," I say at last.

"Take my hand."

I do what she tells me, putting myself completely at her mercy. She pulls me out of my seat and down the hall. I hear frantic whispering then a sudden silence.

"Three," she says. "Two, one and ... ."

There is a golden moment at the start of every performance. It comes just after the conductor has mounted the podium, but before the orchestra begins to play. The applause dies, absorbed by the fabric of the hall and then there is silence.

It hangs pregnant in the air, waiting for release. The audience holds their breath expectantly. The conductor acknowledges them with a curt nod, before turning to the musicians. They hold themselves ready, poised to fill the air with the swell of strings, the roll of drums, the shrill of the woodwind. The baton is raised, then twitches.

"What do you think?" My friend holds the whisky bottle up to the light. Through the clear glass, I can see the tea-coloured contents shifting, leaving trails of raw spirit that slowly drain back.

"It looks good," I say. "But that's not the measure of a good whisky."

My friend laughs. "I know. You taught me that much, at least. Here. You'll love this." He twists the stopper, loosening the cork in the neck of the bottle before pulling it out. I can see the wood, dark and stained. "Have a sniff," he says.

I take the stopper. Inhale.

The plate is small and unassuming. There is no decoration on it, save for the few morsels of food that have been carefully arranged around it: triangles of thin, crisp toast; a bed of chopped onions, their juices glistening; a boiled egg separated into cubes of albumin and yellow-grey yolk. And, in the middle of all these is a cone of black, barely enough to fill a dessert spoon.

The waiter bows. "Bon appétit, monsieur." Then, with a flurry of starched linen, he retreats.

My mouth begins to water, spurred by the aromas that rise gently from the plate.

They sit at opposite ends of the park bench, unsure of what to do next. Each betrays their nervousness: backs stiff and unyielding, arms held close to the sides, their eyes flickering to each other then back again.

"So ... ?" He turns his head to look at her. The words catch in his throat, leaving him dumb. But he cannot shift his gaze.

She responds in kind. "Well ... ." If she says anything more, he does not hear it.

Their eyes meet. This is all the communication they need. As one, they move closer. He holds out a hand, as does she.