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“You’re buying a house?” Leigh asks, her voice amused. “How many do you need?”
I clear my throat, a nervous habit I hate. I’m not even nervous that often, but Leigh is stunning. In academia, the scale for attractiveness is different. Our ten is about a seven everywhere else, but Leigh would be a ten anywhere. “House next door,” I say. I’m about to explain possibly using it as an investment property, but she says, “Cool” and goes right back to work.
I haven’t dated since I moved to Creekville, too busy trying to design and keep up with courses. But this semester, the Intro to Anthro courses are repeats, and I’ve found chunks of free time appearing like loose change in the sofa.
I don’t know where one goes to find dates in this town. I don’t like the idea of dating apps. Leigh is the only single female I know my age, but I’d be interested in her even if there were bushels of single women around.
So why haven’t I made an overture?
Leigh is rather intimidating. She looks like Gal Godot. She teaches abnormal psychology. And human sexuality.
How does a dusty anthropologist ask a sexologist on a date?
He doesn’t.
He shares his office with her because there aren’t enough offices to go around, and he thanks the gods of every culture he’s ever studied for that fact. That’s what he does.
Perhaps one day I’ll figure out how to have a normal conversation with her. But until that day, I'd best shut my mouth and appreciate being in her orbit.
I finish my lecture notes and teach my two Thursday sections without incident. I don’t have office hours on Thursday afternoon, so I head home, stopping at the small specialty foods market on Main for dinner provisions.
The store only has a couple other customers, but one of them is an elderly woman standing in the pasta aisle. I stifle a sigh. Why is that the people who have the least time left in life are the ones who take all the time in the world making a decision? Maybe I can edge around her to get to the . . .
“Hello,” she says. Her blues eyes are alert and crinkle at the corners like she’s done a lot of smiling. I’m not good at guessing older people’s ages, but given her straight posture, I estimate she’s probably under a hundred. But her short hair is snowy white, so who knows?
I give her a tight smile and try to edge past her. I’m so close to the . . .
“Any recommendations?” she asks. “My housekeeper usually cooks, but she’s out of town. I thought I’d make my own dinner, but I’m out of practice.”
Sometimes there’s no way to avoid a conversation. I resign myself to polite chitchat. I’m a student enough of my own culture to know that this is what’s expected in small-town markets.
“You’re cooking for one this evening?” I do a lot of that. I might actually have a suggestion.
“Yes. I’m a pretty decent cook, believe it or not, but rarely for one.”
I wonder if she’s suffered a recent loss. Or maybe she’s simply lonely. I resolve to be patient. “I’m making gnocchi. It’s a potato pasta.”
“I’ve had it.” Her eyes twinkle at me, like she’s enjoying a private joke.
“Yes, well, it’s a nice change from regular pasta sometimes, but it’s hardly worth making from scratch for myself. The one they sell here is acceptable, and if you make a fresh pesto, it’s simple enough, and it makes the boxed pasta feel indulgent. But that’s the only good boxed gnocchi.” I point to it.
“Clever. I like it.” She reaches for the gnocchi and hands me a box before settling one in her own basket. “I’m Lily Greene, by the way. I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Henry Hill.” I shake the hand she offers.
Her eyes sharpen with interest. “You’re Marley and George Ellis’s grandson, aren’t you?”
The question surprises me. “Yes. Most people remember my grandfather, but hardly anyone mentions my grandmother.”
“I’ve lived in Creekville almost sixty years,” she says. “I came here as a young newlywed, and I’m past eighty now. I was near your grandparents’ age. I’m sorry for your losses.”
Again, it’s a surprise to hear condolences on my grandmother’s passing because it was so long ago. What isn’t a surprise is the pang of guilt I still feel almost thirty years later. “Thank you,” I tell her. “That’s kind.”
“I hear you’ve moved into their home,” she says. “It’s a beautiful place.”
“It is,” I agree. “More house than I know what to do with, but it’s certainly a good house.”
We chat a bit more, and I like her warm demeanor. She asks quite a few questions, but it feels like interest, not curiosity. By the time we drift in opposite directions down the aisle, she’s ascertained my age, job, and marital status.
