I get Ben a chair, but it turns out that he needs three, stacked on top of each other and placed on the table. I hold the chairs still as he climbs up and struggles to get the loop of the plant pot onto the hook. “So,” he says, while he strains his body upward. “I usually get new artists . . .” He makes a noise as he stretches up as far as he can go, standing on tiptoe— “. . . I usually get the new artists edible plants . . . like . . . herbs and . . . tomatoes and . . . you know, mushrooms . . . so . . .” Ben is silent for a moment while he concentrates. Then the loop hooks on and the plant swings, the leaves falling elegantly over Ben’s head. He drops his arms to his sides. His face is pink. “Sorry, yeah,” he says, looking directly into my eyes. “I usually get the new artists edible plants, so then when we all have dinner in The Place, everyone brings whatever they’ve successfully grown.”

“Oh, nice,” I say. I smile, and Ben smiles back. For a moment, we are just looking and smiling at each other.

“I better get down, I suppose,” Ben says, as though he likes it up there.

He grabs my arm as he nearly slips from on top of the chairs—his hand is very hot, and I remember my dream and am reminded of my hunger, and I feel my stomach knot and kind of squeeze itself. My mouth opens as if of its own accord.

“Oop,” Ben says—an oops missing its s. He takes his hand quickly off my arm. “Sorry. What I’m trying to say is that you’ll be let off the hook—oo!” he says, the oo rising at the end. “Accidental pun!” He laughs. I laugh too. There’s something funny about him, wobbling on top of the chairs, laughing at his own jokes.

“What can I say, I’m a poet,” he adds. “Well . . . not a poet. Is that a poet?” he asks me, with a genuinely curious expression on his face.

“Is what a poet?” I ask.

“Like, a pun maker?”

“Oh, I guess not,” I say.

Ben sits down on the stack of chairs, slides off the edge, and then jumps off the table, running a couple of steps once he lands. “Right, well . . .” I watch his chest rise and fall. “Looks pretty good—what do you think?”

“Yeah,” I say. But even a fake plant looks strange, hanging in a space with no natural light.

Ben cocks his head, frowning. “Looks a bit odd, I suppose, in such an empty room.” I watch him look around the space again. “So, I have to ask . . . where’s all your stuff? Like, where’s your work? Weren’t you moving in last night?”