Please follow me to your seat

Having pushed through the stiffly resistant revolving door into the busy reception, dotca waits a moment before seeking the eye of the Maître d. In these seconds his gaze shifts from the bustle, the rushing waitresses all in black, pony tailed and armed with menus or clinking trays, the solid overfed man brandishing his credit card to the unhurried receptionist, his partner behind him checking her phone whilst rearranging her hair in the large mirror beyond the desk, down to the mud splatters on his shoes which seem almost iridescent against the cool clean hardwood floor. His gaze shifts inwards, the noise about him reduces to a hum.