Ben opens a door with a nameplate on it that reads “A14.” I step into the room. It’s quite small, but enough. On one side is a sink and a counter with a microwave on top and a small fridge underneath.

“The rent on this studio is cheaper than the ones with windows. It’s two hundred and fifty-five pounds per month, with Kora subsidizing the rest as part of the young artists’ scheme.” Ben’s looking at one of the pieces of paper he is holding. “Bills are on top, but they’re cheap. Payment is due on the twenty-eighth of every month. I can leave this with you if you decide to take the room.” He holds the piece of paper up to show me. “There’s a map too, fire exits, all that.”

“Do the lights dim?” I ask, and Ben nods. I go to the switch and try it. The lights go down until they’re almost off. I leave them at their lowest and, for a moment, the room looks like it is just made of shadows. Then, my eyes adjust and I can see everything. Ben squints in my direction, frowning slightly.

“I like it,” I say.

“Okay, great! You’ll take it?”

“Yep.”

“Let’s sit down with the contracts, then. So, shall we . . .”

I realize that he is expecting me to turn the lights up again.

“Okay,” I say, but I don’t go to the switch. I go to the table and sit down in the half-light, hoping that he will just go with it. He does. He stumbles a bit on his way to the table over nothing. People, I think to myself, have appalling night vision. And he sits down.

He spreads the papers on the table. Then he looks up toward me. In this light his features look very soft, whereas outside he had looked slightly more angular. I take in his cheeks, which are round and tinged pink. He must be quite young. He’s fairly good-looking. I smile at him. Ben puts one of his hands in the other, and then says, “Would you mind if I . . . ?” and points to the light above our heads. He begins to stand up from his seat.

“Actually, would you mind if we just left it?” I ask. “I’m getting a headache,” I add.

“Oh . . . yeah, yeah, sure. I’ve got some ibuprofen, if you want . . .” Ben sits down again, and reaches toward his bag next to him on the floor. It’s a nice, svelte-looking cycling bag.

I shake my head. “It’s okay. I’m good. I’m probably just hungry.” And as I say the word “hungry,” my stomach rumbles. I shuffle on my seat to disguise the noise, but it’s pretty loud and the empty room is particularly resonant. I feel embarrassed. Ben pretends he hasn’t heard it, which makes it even worse.