I forget how I’m dressed until he answers. My comfiest, tightest, shortest booty shorts, which until recently hadn’t fit; a sports bra, and my T-shirt fabric hoodie, only half zipped. No more protruding ribs, and I’ve even got something to put into a bra, finally. I’d almost forgotten how that feels.

His eyes slide down, back up, and fix on my eyes. “Hi.”

I have no clue what I want to say. “Um, hi.”

Not stellar as far as opening gambits go.

“You think about what you need to think about?” he asks.

I laugh. “No. I just realized I wasn’t getting anywhere, so I gave up.”

He lets his door swing open, revealing his table, where a bottle of whiskey sits half-empty beside a glass, along with his carving materials. “You want to come in?”

It’s the first time he’s asked.

“Uh, we can sit out here.”

“All right.” He glances at his kitchen counter, where a small wrought iron wine racks sits empty. “I don’t have any wine or champagne. Just whiskey or beer.”

“Would you be mad if I asked for lots of ice in the whiskey?”

“No,” he laughs. “I’m not that kind of whiskey snob. I like specific stuff, and I guess it’s true enough I don’t drink cheap shit, but if you like it with ice, you like it with ice. No harm in that.”

He removes a tumbler from a cabinet, reaches into his freezer—it’s an antique, that fridge, avocado colored and half his height—for a white tray of ice. Twists, cracking ice out. Scoops four big cubes into the glass, then a fifth for good measure, and fills the glass with amber whiskey.

We sit on his porch, in the rocking chairs—it must have been a set of four, his two and my two, because they’re nearly identical, but for little differences which only highlight the individual craftsmanship that went into them. The whiskey is smoky and tastes like fire and honey. It’s almost viscous on my tongue, and the ice is cold on my lips as I sip.

“What did you mean by that?” he asks.

I don’t have to clarify what he’s asking about.

“I think it was more just to see how I’d feel not seeing you every day.” I swallow hard— the truth is thick and hard to get past my teeth. “It was getting too familiar, seeing you every day. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a widow and a widower gettin’ to know each other, Nadia,” he says, his voice low and rough. “Not sure a body could take things much slower than we’ve been.”

“I know.” I shake the tumbler lightly, and ice clinks. “I guess it’s that I’m not sure I’m ready for there to be anything to take slowly.”