He’s like you. He says that times have changed. He says he’s an oculist.

He’s an optimist? I’m sure you’re right, Miss.

Mr. Anderson tells me that I’m five tens and three or, as he says it, “fifty-three” this year.

I asked him to show me what fifty-three looks like in tally marks. He did. I felt every one of those lines and slashes, each one a heavy coat worn on top of the other. Even on the hottest Cincinnati days, when the Ohio looks like it’s steaming, I can’t take those coats off, not a one. If that’s what fifty-three means, then he’s right. I’m fifty-three this year.

Look around you. This is what I’ve to show for all those years. A two-room cottage at the back of someone else’s house. At least it’s rent-free, I tell myself. Mr. Anderson owns the main house. He’s done well enough for himself. He doesn’t need to collect an old lady’s rent.

Pat was two tens and two when we met, Mr. Anderson says.

I would have said that Pat was the younger one. His heart wasn’t fully grown back then, and it made him shy or not enjoy the company of people. I couldn’t tell which at first.

From the start, Pat didn’t lounge on the front porch with the other boarders and Mrs. Haslam, taking in the breeze or the moonlight. After supper, he would smoke his pipe on the back steps instead. It being summer, I kept the door to the kitchen wide open, and Pat would look in and nod. When some white men nodded, they meant they might need something from me at any moment, so I better be prepared. Pat nodded like he wanted to say, Good evening, Miss Alethea, it’s a fine night, and the stars are beginning to glow. Why don’t you come out and sit awhile with me?