“I am not sure I am ready to start meeting people, Sandra,” I said, staring down at my spreadsheet. “My twenty-two dollars an hour doesn’t leave much room for a social life.”
“It is just coffee,” Sandra said. “He is my brother, and he is as steady as a stone wall.”
The cafe near the entrance to Prospect Park charged four dollars and fifty cents for a small drip coffee.
Robert sat across from me, using his index finger to slide his wire-rimmed glasses back up the bridge of his nose.
“My first marriage ended because we simply stopped speaking,” Robert said, his voice flat and perfectly measured. “There was no great drama, just an agreement that we had reached the end of our contract.”
I adjusted the silver wedding band on my right hand, feeling the familiar cool metal slide against my knuckle. “My husband passed away five years ago, and I still find myself cooking for two.”
“A waste of resources,” Robert said. “A single person living in a family-sized space is highly inefficient.”
“My daughter and Tom have been very generous,” I said, looking out the window at the yellow maple leaves. “But their apartment is quite small.”
“Park Slope has excellent transit access,” Robert said, his eyes scanning the quiet street before turning back to me. “A shared arrangement can reduce individual overhead by forty percent.”
The quiet clinking of my coffee cup against the saucer as Robert smiled and offered to drive me home.
He stood at the vintage gas stove, watching a pot of salted water come to a boil. His kitchen was spotless, every copper pot hanging from an iron rack in order of size, their bottoms polished to a dull pink.
“My monthly rent is two thousand one hundred dollars,” Robert said, stirring the pasta with a long wooden spoon. “In this part of Park Slope, a space like this is nearly impossible to find for that price.”
