The jacket was a little threadbare, maybe; the tie knotted carefully to hide a faded sauce-stain and the shoes - well, he'd tried his best with the scuff marks, and if his best wasn't good enough, such was life.
Close enough, he reassured himself in the mirror. He didn't look quite entrepreneur, but he didn't look like some kid slumming it out on the streets, either. Wouldn't cut it with some stuffy venture capitalist, but he was just going for lunch with a friend - or at least, someone he hoped he'd be able to call a friend soon enough.
The restaurant was only a few minutes' walk from his apartment. A neatly-dressed waiter greeted him at the door, took his reservation, and directed him to a small table with a tablecloth and a tiny glass vase sporting a droopy pink rose. God, it was all so fancy. He'd specifically picked a restaurant that didn't offer tacos or pizza for the occasion - a conciliatory gesture to avoid conflict of interest, he supposed - but now he just felt awkward and out-of-place.
Well, nothing to do but wait, now.