I realized I was staring and started to turn away just as Owen stopped in front of my favorite piece—a farm table that I used as a desk.

My computer and newspapers and small tools covered most of it. You could only make out the table beneath if you were really looking. He was. He took in the stiff redwood that I had chiseled down, gently yellowing the corners, welding rough metal to each edge.

Was Owen the first customer to notice the table? No, of course not. But he was the first to bend down, just like I’d often do, running his fingers along the sharp metal and holding the table there.

He turned his head and looked up at me. “Ouch,” he said.

“Try bumping up against it in the middle of the night,” I said.

Owen stood back up, giving the table a tap goodbye. Then he walked over to me. He walked over to me until somehow we were standing close to each other—too close, really, for me not to wonder how we’d gotten there. I probably should have felt self-conscious about my tank top and paint-splattered jeans, the messy bun on top of my head, my unwashed curls falling out of it. I felt something else though, watching him look at me.

“So,” he said, “what’s the asking price?”

“Actually, the table is the only piece in the showroom that’s not for sale,” I said.

“Because it could cause injury?” he said.

“Exactly,” I said.

This was when he smiled. When Owen smiled. It was like the title of a bad pop song. To be clear, it wasn’t that his smile lit up his face. It wasn’t anything as sentimental or explosive as that. It was more that his smile—this generous, childlike smile—made him seem kind. It made him seem kind in a way I wasn’t used to running into on Greene Street in downtown Manhattan. It was expansive in a way I’d started to doubt I’d ever run into on Greene Street in downtown Manhattan.

“So, no negotiating on the table then?” he said.

“Afraid not, but I could show you some different pieces?”

“How about a lesson instead? You could show me how to make a similar table for myself, but maybe with slightly kinder edges…” he said. “I’ll sign a waiver. Any injuries acquired would be at my own risk.”

I was still smiling, but I felt confused. Because all of a sudden I didn’t think we were talking about the table. I felt fairly confident that we weren’t. I felt as confident as a woman could who had spent the last two years engaged to a man whom she’d realized she couldn’t marry. Two weeks before their wedding.

“Look, Ethan…” I said.

“Owen,” he corrected.