On my day off I took the train downtown to buy the sweater. I had twenty-two dollars in my wallet and six hundred and three in my account. The turtleneck, $295, would be my last splurge. It was solidly constructed and fit me perfectly. But it delivered so much more, and there was nothing ostentatious about it. I was hypnotized by the almost-black color of the wool—“eggplant” in direct sunlight, according to the booklet joined to the label with a golden safety pin.

A sign was hung in the window saying the store was closing early for a private event. “See you online,” said the blue sans-serif of a prevailing style. Behind the glass, a man wearing an equally beautiful turtleneck adjusted decorations on a shelf. He moved toward the window and looked over my head, pretending I wasn’t there.

I turned away and was blinded: the sun was sitting between the rows of office buildings lining the avenue. One block ahead, a scaffolding blocked most of the light and I stopped to look at a display containing a single watch, my hands freezing in my pockets.

I wandered in the general direction of the train, but I wanted something. If I ordered online, I would miss out on watching someone fold the turtleneck, wrap it in tissue, and place it snugly in a box: but maybe the package would deliver some of the refreshing aroma, somewhat like cucumber, somewhat like celery, and sea mist, always lingering in the store.

I couldn’t tell if the restaurant in front of which I suddenly found myself was closed or if I wasn’t yanking hard enough on the door. Though it was dark it was only five o’clock, and I was not ravenous, not, strictly speaking, for food. I reached to try again at the same time someone pushed, banging my hand.

I tripped over the rug in the foyer. It was warm inside. The host glanced over her shoulder into the empty dining room, tapping her foot.

I hadn’t looked at the prices. I should have enough money left for the sweater. Try not to think about that, I told myself: watching one’s pennies in a place like this was the joyless antithesis of the establishment’s purpose.

There was no music playing; the whine of a vacuum grew louder, though I couldn’t find a vacuumer. Someone was sitting at the bar already, the only other customer and the only one who would have arrived earlier than me. He met my eyes and nodded.

“Right this way,” the host said.

The lights dimmed to pinpricks and I was blinded. I followed her shell of golden hair, floating in the darkness, to a small table against the wall.

“Could I sit over there?” I pointed to a corner booth for six with its own chandelier. She hesitated, and then walked me over. “Enjoy,” she said.

I could see the whole dining room from my seat. I slid forward, stretched my legs, and put my bag on the tabletop. I took off my watch, unfurled three sets of silverware, so I could wipe my mouth with a clean napkin after every course, and flagged down a waiter. He glided over as if by boat. “Yes,” he said obediently. I ordered a martini, Beefeater stirred, no vermouth, no garnish. This was my uncle’s cocktail, not a typical order for me. I hadn’t been sure what I wanted to drink. Maybe nothing. I was here for steak. I was a vegetarian except for steak.

80-Day Dry-Aged Ribeye for Two. At $180, it was nearly three times the cost of the next most expensive item. I ordered it. I couldn’t decide between the shrimp cocktail and a wedge salad. I ordered both.

“Playin’ the hits tonight,” I said to the waiter. I didn’t talk like this.

When I finished my martini I would have a heavy red for my ribeye, as one does; with dessert, Cognac. No—Calvados. I loved Calvados. “Thank you, my friend,” I said, handing the menu back. People who ate in places like this called the waiter My Friend.

I added everything up in my head, subtracted the total from six hundred, and was left with $290. If I waited until Friday, payday, to order the sweater, my size might have sold out. It could sell out any second. As of now it was still in stock on the website, folded so beautifully in the photo I wanted to swallow it whole. I swiped for a close-up of the buttons, gleaming like candies. I can order it right now with a click, I thought—and doing so will constrain my dining experience. If I order it after I pay for dinner, maybe my card will go through regardless of whether I have quite enough funds, and the twenty-two dollars can last me until Friday.

I was glad I’d gotten the ribeye. I pictured myself dragging the knife along the salty crust and tapping it to judge its hardness, and then cutting into the middle. Now I was salivating.

I took a bracing first sip of gin, looked around, and felt, as the alcohol tingled in my cheekbones, like I was in a play in a theatre set in a bygone time. The waiters, clustered at the bar, wore ill-fitting chore jackets, off-white like cheesecake, with black piping around the lapels. Curtains draped heavily over the windows; any minute, Mae West would ride down on the chandelier, dressed as a chandelier. Breaking the spell, the host led a woman of today in my direction. She, the customer, surged ahead, leading the host to her chosen table, wheeling her suitcase past the tray of sweating water pitchers to the banquette next to mine. She wore an expensive-looking sweater herself, possibly angora or cashmere, and flouncing necklaces. Her hair stuck to her forehead. “I’m goddamn jet-lagged again,” she said into the phone pinned between her ear and shoulder. The host handed her a menu and told her to enjoy and the woman went on, ignoring her; her flight had been delayed six hours, she said; a separatist group had “taken over” the airport wherever she’d been, and she’d missed an apartment viewing this afternoon as a result, and there was no use bothering with it anymore, someone else had surely snapped it up by now.

Still standing, she took a bite of bread and set it on the table, next to the bread plate.

The man who brought my salad was carrying several other duplicates. He slipped a bowl onto my table using a sleight of hand I was too slow to catch and he disappeared before I could ask for pepper, flinging the double doors to the back of the house forward with his foot and whistling through his fingers as if hailing a cab. The woman turned to glare at him, but he was gone again, the doors swinging absently where the sound had been, less and less until their movements were imperceptible. She didn’t look up from her phone when he burst through, seconds later, with salads lining his arms again. Before I could raise a finger to flag him down he was walking over, reaching for something behind his back: he pulled out a pepper grinder the length of a rifle, twirled it in the air, and cracked out a cloud of brown dust over my flaccid wedge. He urged me to enjoy and went back into the kitchen.

The woman’s entree arrived before mine: a man lifted a cloche from under her impassive face, revealing a filet mignon with béarnaise. The steak was taller than it was wide, a cylinder of matte maroon with a sunburst fade, and with grill marks that looked painted on. The sauce also looked waxen and exhibitory, too uniform to be natural, possibly even glued to the mirror-polished silver boat it came in. My dinner arrived without garnish or affectation, on a cutting board the size of a notebook. “Thanks,” I said, and looked up to see nobody standing there. A flurry of salt was showered onto the dominoes of beef; behind them lay a bone, white and smooth, that looked like it could have come from anywhere; an ossuary somewhere, or a bucket out back.

I chewed slowly, trying to savor the warm tones of the meat. The continued absence of music brought the murmur of voices, the sound of silver touching porcelain, and of ice water falling into glass, into focus. I glanced over at the woman, who still hadn’t touched her food. Blood seeped out from underneath her filet and pooled along the golden inner ring of the porcelain.

She craned her neck and looked at me, and then down at my food. “That looks fabulous,” she said, looking up at me again and holding my gaze. I smiled faintly and continued eating.

After my Calvados, I stood, folded my napkin into a figure which resembled a bird in flight, and laid it to the right of my plate.

A line had formed between the bar and a set of stairs, presumably for the restroom. I sidestepped the group, descended, walked past the “W.C.,” and down a hallway, the perfume of Normandy apples still spreading through me.

I reached a blind corner and turned right. I came to another blind corner, turned left, and walked down another hallway, whose end was not visible. The sounds of the dining room were gone; all I could hear was my shoes on the misapplied wood-laminate, rising and falling over the ground.

I walked for minutes on end, each hallway seemingly identical to the last, differing only in length. Suddenly there was a door—into a drafty prep kitchen. All of the appliances were unplugged; on a steel table lay an entire skinned cow.

I passed through the room and through the door on the other side, entering another hallway. A phone on the wall rang.

I picked it up. “Jacob is here,” a woman’s voice said. “He says he knows you’re busy and just wants to say hi.”

“Make him wait half an hour and then tell him I’m not available,” I said. I hung up.

I opened a door that said “Wine,” removed a bottle without looking, and carried it behind my back through the kitchen, toward an Exit sign. A man dangling a live lobster from each hand shuffled past, eyeing me. “My friend,” I said, ingratiatingly. I ran up the slick, metal staircase, went outside, and set the bottle, a Saint-Émilion, in a potted plant. The door clapped shut behind me. Jacketless in the freezing cold, I added the sweater to my Shopping Cart on the website, entered my debit card information and address, and sent the order through. I received an email saying the item would ship soon.

“Welcome in,” the host said as I slid through the heavy door, like earlier, only now the restaurant was full.

As I made myself small between two chairs whose backs were nearly touching, I saw that the woman’s place setting had been cleared and reset. The bill was open on my table: three hundred and forty dollars. I stared at it, absently unfolding my scarf, trying to get on with things and look as normal as possible. I put my crisp twenty in the check presenter, saving the two singles for myself, for some reason. The twenty slid through the ratty divider and flitted down to the carpet. I bent down, snatched it, and set it on the tablecloth.

I worked my way toward the exit through the horde of newcomers at the bar. The woman was still here, putting on her coat by the door, facing my direction but looking past me. I searched her eyes for trouble, but she was elsewhere mentally. I felt like I was sinking. I was not far from the door, and I couldn’t seem to move any faster.